When The Shoes Fit
by Springnotes
Summary: "Nii-san, please come visit me often!" No matter how much either of them wanted to go back to those times, the damage has already been done. Yao has long turned away from his little brother's history, he forgave and let go. Now he chooses to walk forward-and only forwards with Ivan Braginski. Both country and human names used. Historic. Sensitive topics. Romance? ROCHU. (Nichu?)
1. Chapter 1

"Hey nii-san, let's go catch fish!"

The small boy dashed excitedly from the other side of the bamboo thicket. His wooden clogs were slightly bigger than his feet and made satisfying clanks with every step he took.

A long-robed east Asian man smiled and narrowed his eyes in amusement, "Slow down, little Kiku. Don't fall."

"But I'm so excited! Nii-san you finally came to visit!"

Kiku Honda finally came to a halt in front of Yao Wang. Yao extended his arms and enfolded the boy in a warm embrace.

"As long as you're a good boy, I'll come visit all the time," Yao Wang grinned as he rested a hand on the child's hair, gently patting, "Hey you've grown taller again!"

As Kiku Honda listened to his older brother's gentle and steady voice, he couldn't help but bury his face into Yao's long and elegant robes. As he took a deep breath, he smelled the familiar fragrance of peonies.

As long as my little Kiku is a good boy, I'll always come visit, he said.

He always kept his word.

After that, Yao would always slowly stride towards Kiku's home with his umbrella made of twisting and swivelling bamboo. Sometimes he would bring a long sash scarf made of smooth glistening silk, sometimes he might even bring a calligraphy brush for Kiku. He face was always dusted in a peaceful, gentle smile.

"Kiku, I made some rice cakes for you."

"Kiku, I'll teach you how to write."

Year after year.

"Kiku," he gazed at Honda who was dipping his toes into the refreshing water in the pond, and asked, "Why did you chop down all those bamboo on the way here?"

"Because I want to plant sakura trees." the delicate brows slightly knitted together,

"Letting them grow would only serve to get in my way, it's better to get rid of them."

Yao Wang caught a glimpse of a complicated flash in the other nation's onyx eyes. He wasn't sure of what that look meant, so he dismissed it with a bright smile.

"Perhaps you don't like what I have done, brother?" Kiku asked.

"…It's not that I don't like it, it's just—well, they're all suddenly chopped down, what's going to happen to all those bamboos?"

"I'll use what can be of use."

"What about those that you can't use?"

"I'll burn it." Kiku answered calmly.

With zenith comes the decline of a curse in the Japanese soul, the cruelty well concealed and hidden under the warm and mild mask. Only many years after, Yao Wang will be staggering in front of Kiku Honda, covered in his own gushing blood, regretting how he hadn't realized and fathomed out the hints of the sharp teeth bared at him.

In consequence, he'd be treated the same fate as the fallen bamboos.

"Nii-san, I dislike that man." Kiku was idly peeling at the bark of a flower tree.

"Hm? Who do you dislike, Kiku?"

Nails dug into the trunk of the tree, soft liquid came drizzling out, carrying a bitter yet sweet scent.

Kiku softly parted his lips, his eyes were like two pools of unreadable stagnant water.

"…Braginski."

Snap!

Yao accidentally snapped the twig he was toying with in half.

"…Kiku, what did you hear?"

"You won the battle, why did you still have to give territory to him?"

Yao did not answer.

"Why?" Kiku gripped the tree trunk, his voice distressed, "It was yours."

"Nii-san, you're being too good to him. What did he ever give you?"

 _What did he ever give you?_

* * *

"Ivan, Kiku told me that I'm being too good to you." Yao said to the other man laying close to him.

Ivan Braginski paused for a moment, his violet eyes narrowing into a smile, "What do you think?"

"….I don't know," He sighed, putting a hand to his forehead, "I don't know, Ivan."

The Soviet Union lowered his head and kissed the other nation's neck, his warm breath tickling Yao's skin. He smelt so sweet.

"Is this really a good idea for us to be together?" Yao asked, trying to push the larger nation away.

Ivan just snuggled closer.

"Yao," the pale blonde man grumbled, "Focus more, I don't like it when you're always talking about someone else when you're with me."

With that, he gently nuzzled his face into the crook of Yao's neck.

"You're only allowed to think about me." he grunted, "Or else I'll get jealous, you know how I am. I'm a selfish person."

Yao just scoffed in response.

"Kiku is just a child, his words don't mean anything." Ivan whispered in Yao's ear.

Yao smiled, "Ivan, you're also just a child compared to me."

Ivan didn't argue, he just decided to kiss Yao, covering up all the words that he didn't want to hear.

The golden ornament carved into a beast stood attached to the side of the bed, glistening in the dim candle light. The worries that could never be told were left tangling into the warm mist of the night.

* * *

The smooth, white feet repeated a fine dainty motion with every step. The wooden clog slipped from one foot, and fell on the stone steps. Then, another person made his way towards the fallen shoe. He bent over, with one hand keeping his long sleeve in place, the other picking the shoe up. His lashes were a perfect curve as he looked down. He gently helped Kiku put his wooden clog back on his bare foot again.

"Wear your shoes properly, Kiku, we're going into autumn now. It's getting chilly." he gently chastised, and then tilted his body to sit on the stone slab. The stone was decorated with various thin lines of moss.

The red maples on the island country were swaying in such a scarlet hue, it was as if it was drawing blood from the earth.

Kiku Honda pursed his lips but didn't reply, he rolled on his tummy and rested his hand on Yao's legs, dark eyes narrowing playfully.

Yao raised a brow and suddenly laughed out loud.

"Kiku, it's been all these years, why haven't you grown up yet?" he joked.

The youth stayed silent, pretending to be asleep.

Yao gently combed his pale fingers into Kiku's pitch black hair, smoothing it with every stroke. The refreshing ocean breeze making their long sleeves flutter in the air, carrying the distinct fragrance of autumn. Kiku tugged on his clothing and scooted nearer, then he finally spoke, "Big brother, could you please come visit more often?"

His voice was crisp and clear, like a new fresh bamboo sliced in half, the pristine juice leaking out.

Of course Yao agreed. He wasn't one to refuse requests.

When he left to return home that day, his long robes floating like smoke in the breeze, he lowered his gaze to meet Kiku's. He glanced at Kiku's feet, a delicate curve, obvious bone structure, and the wooden clogs that were a few sizes too big. Clank, clank, clank.

A warm smile eased onto his face as he said, "When these shoes fit, you can come ask me for an award for your coming of age."

The teen stared for a moment, then blossomed into a sweet smile.

"I can ask for anything?"

"Anything." he effortlessly made a promise. He's just a child, what more can he ask for? Then he bent over and gently pinched Kiku's cheek, "As long as you wish for it, I can give you anything."

Yao hadn't worried much about it at that time, he was the Celestial Empire, he had the world in his hands. A child's wishes hadn't troubled him. He had golden palaces, coral pearl trees, magical healing medicines, he had everything. What couldn't he give to his beloved little brother?

Not long after a few years, he had forgotten all about it.

But it was different for Kiku. For this promise, he worked so hard he almost went mad. Razor-sharp blades, shining katana, explosive cannons, silver and gold jewelry…The graceful features of Yao Wang moulded itself in Kiku's heart like an old wine that stung, the sweetness grated his senses and urged him to move forward, never stopping.

Then, not long after, he heard the message of China sealing his door, locking himself away from the whole world. Yao had always kept his promises, but this time, after leaving the island of Kiku, he disappeared behind his thick walls and long doors. He left Japan waiting for a long, long time.

Kiku felt an abrupt hatred. But he concealed it under a clam facade. He poured himself a cup of traditional tea, and he continued to grow.

Compared to Ivan who straight up showed the overbearing insensitivity, Kiku was a reserved and quiet nation who always sealed his concerns in his heart and kept to himself. Japan was just as much petrifying as the reckless Soviet Union.

China only discovered these dangerous personalities when it was way too late.

If he'd realized what Japan was really capable of, maybe he wouldn't have so carelessly promised Kiku his gift.

When the shoes fit.

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 **TO BE CONTINUED  
** =======================

A/N~  
Hello everyone, thank you so much for reading! This will be my first chapter story on and I'm reallyyy excited for this :D

There won't be too much Rochu at first, but I promise, there will be tons once we get deeper into the story. When The Shoes Fit will contain some pretty sensitive perspectives and point of views since we are talking about wars here! But please know that I have no purpose on insulting anyone or any ideology. I'm just another Hetalia fangirl! :))

Please follow along any feel free to give any *gentle* feedbacks :P

Credits to 昔年烟沙 who was the original author of this fan fiction. I have just translated the story from Chinese to English. I thought that the story was simply amazing, and that more of the Hetalia fans all over the world should be able to read and appreciate it. No plagiarizing purposes intended.

Thanks again!

Lieor

((I don't own Hetalia...


	2. Chapter 2

A/N~  
This chapter may be sensitive to some of you? Please be kind to me T^T~~~

* * *

Slender fingers traced along the line of Ivan's spine, then reached to curl around the base of the neck, and then Ivan was met with a soft, dizzying kiss. His violet eyes showed hints of amusement as he ended the long, warm kiss.

The east european nation had matured again compared to the last time they spend time together like this.

"Why are you so eager today?" he whispered into Yao's ear with a husky yet attractive voice.

"I'm in a good mood." The nation of China replied curtly while hooking his thin and pale legs around Ivan's waist. Ivan frowned, his asian lover was acting too strange, like a bird shackled with the weight of a stone, unable to fly, unable to see in the tragically dark midnight. Ivan became worried.

Yao didn't resist his gruff grasp.

Yao didn't hold in his moans.

"Are you going to be like the Kirkland bastard again? Serious and uninterested on the outside, but after getting screwed by Alfred you show what you really are—thirsty for it."

Yao tenderly gave a few pecks on Ivan's Adam's apple, causing the other nation to heat up a little in embarrassment.

"Arthur? He's sold me plenty of good stuff." he hadn't finished his sentence when he was cut off by his own gasp of surprise when Ivan suddenly jerked into him with a rough and abrupt motion.

"….Ivan…you little…at least let me finish my sentence…!" Yao complained weakly to him.

Ivan smiled and propped his hand at the side of Yao's waist, "But no one else can make you feel it the way like I do."

The asian man did not reply once again like he normally would.

Now Ivan was genuinely worried, he look at Yao deeply in the eyes and asked, "Yao, what did Arthur sell you?"

"Oh I don't know," Yao replied, "He said it was called 'opium', I've never heard of it before."

Then after a moment of silence he asked Ivan, "Have you ever heard of it, Ivan?"

"…No." Ivan said after a pause, his eyes darkening, "Never."

* * *

Yao was getting sicker and skinner day by day, coughing up blood, falling in and out of consciousness in bed. Ivan held his wrist, the skinny arm like a match-stick. He was afraid that if he just used a bit of strength, Yao's arm would snap in half and the bones will come jarring out of the skin. Ivan couldn't take seeing this anymore. He tried taking Yao to the doctor, but the doctors always said that Yao was fine, and that he only needed to rest.

At home, Yao always carried a tobacco pipe with a small pouch attached to it, the pale fingers wrapped around it—the malignant temptation. He spent the whole day sitting on the bamboo mat, gazing at the warm smoked lights. Swirling puffs danced around the jade screens.

He threw away the name of the Celestial Empire and got lost in the endless haziness, repeating day after day. Without a name. Crumbling, rotting.

One day, he sat leaning against the couch, smoking himself the opium inanimately, consumed in his dreams when someone pushed open the rosewood dragon gate and walked in. The high-top boots clanking on the wooden floor, sword rattling.

He thought it was Ivan and said, "You came."

The person frowned. The room was filled with such a soft, sweet scent that it turned bitter. He couldn't get used to the smell and coughed a few times, causing a lock of blond hair to fall in front of his eyes.

"How sickly you've become." the newcomer commented.

Yao was so dazed, he couldn't muster a reply.

China didn't, and couldn't stop him as Britain swept away all his belongings. That day when he barged into his room and took all the treasures that the whole world would stare in jealousy at.

 _"Arthur…you bastard! Get out! I don't want to see you, get out!"_

And then France followed right after. With a flick of his fingers, an aroma of roses and wine, he destroyed.

The two of them, together they lit the place on fire. The gardens demolished, the buildings torn down.

Sometimes when Yao would be sober, all the emotions and disgust would start whelming in, settling in his mind. He hated the misery, his depravity, the _shame_. Yet, he still held onto the long, decorated pipe.

How ironic, it was the easiest thing to let go of. Just throw it away, snap it in half.

Why hold on? Why let himself indulge and fall into addiction?

He could throw away the name of the great empire with a flick of his arm so easily, but couldn't bring himself to let go of the drug. Comfort was more of a priority than dignity to him.

China collapsed.

* * *

Kiku Honda promenaded down the hall with his wooden clogs. The rain was particularly heavy this year on the lone island; the droplets pattered relentlessly on the tile eaves. All of the neatly arranged bows hanging on the walls have slight hints of rustiness creeping along the metal tips and handles. However, the main reason that the bows have rusted was because of the neglect of their owner towards them. Kiku stopped to run his hands along the rifle gun that rested against a pillar of his home, then, he glanced at his old collection of bows, face absent of any emotion. He headed towards the stairs at the exit, preparing to change into his new military boots. He stopped to look down at his feet resting on the clogs. Not too big, not too small, it fitted perfectly. His eyes suddenly turned very serene.

"Yao, I've come to get my coming of age gift."

He tightened the laces on his boots and tried taking a few steps, it felt strange and unfamiliar, but much more convenient and tidier.

The remaining warmth of the wooden clog gradually disappeared.

* * *

The once formidable land that no one dared to step foot on had now been trampled into a miserable mess. When Kiku Honda arrived on land, even his normally calm face had distorted into a look dismay that could not be masked. When Kiku and his men had won the Battle of the Yellow Sea, he had vaguely known that Yao wasn't has powerful anymore, but as Kiku actually saw him in person, he still had trouble coming to terms with reality. It was as if Kiku could only think of the time when the man would still stroll slowly among the bamboo thicket with his umbrella. Always bringing an elegant atmosphere, always shining gold with every step.

But now, Yao's gaze was unfocused—lost in a fantasy would, his build gaunt and his lips white with a sickly crack.

He was so great, so powerful…but where had that brilliant China disappeared to?

Kiku was overcharged with emotions, but the lament and schadenfreude took up the most of his feelings.

 _You promised to visit me, but you couldn't do it._

 _Karma._

 _This is the retribution for you forgetting me._

 _You deserve this punishment._

Kiku wrenched a handful of Yao's unkempt, long hair and pulled him close, not giving a single sign of mercy as he smashed his lips against the other's. Drawing blood from such force, he tasted the bitter liquid. There was a unexplainable satisfaction rising in Kiku's heart, but at the same time, a vague throb.

His suddenly remembered all those years he spent after his _nii-san_ left for the last time. He would always sit on the stairs in front of the bamboo forest. He hugged his knees and silently waited, silently hoped. The sakura budded from pea-sized pods and blossomed into beautiful maiden-like flowers, the elegant maples reddened into scarlet tears. The snow swirled violently, the the summer heat came and went. Soon later, another spring would peak out from right around the corner. But that person still never came.

His wooden clogs would fit him more and more with each coming day.

He still never came.

Kiku never said a word about it, but never got over the throbbing in his heart. The burning anger carved itself into his bones.

"Nii-san…Why wouldn't you come and see me…why…?" He surveyed Yao Wang's sickly and thin body, and asked in a soft, hoarse voice full of unshed tears. "I've waited for you for so long, did you know? …..You still never came."

Yao didn't reply.

Kiku Honda suddenly felt a surge of uncontrollable hatred, his watery onyx eyes contained a deep sorrow, he swiftly grabbed the katana beside the bed and mercilessly, without any hesitation, sliced across Yao Wang's back.

The blood flied everywhere and splattered against the silk curtains and portraits.

It was as if the whole room was blossomed full of plum flowers. Bloody, bloody plum flowers.

"I underestimated you….Little Kiku…."

That was the last time he heard himself being called "Little Kiku".

* * *

Box by box, the chests of precious jade and gold and silver were carried away by the foreign men. What they couldn't take, they burnt and they destroyed. Jones, Beilschmidt, Vargas…One after another they intruded his home, and he couldn't do anything to stop them. He couldn't protect his home. He was powerless.

Kirkland, Bonnefoy, Edelstein…. _Honda_.

Enough. He was left with nothing now, who else is coming for him?

He had enough.

* * *

A mirror had fallen when Alfred's men were carrying the treasures away, Yao lifted it and reflected his face. In that moment, he saw all the hundreds of years of blooming all fallen away. All the power deprived from the frail man. The reign of the dynasties thrown into mud, filthy and stained, no one can scrub away the tarnished now.

He clutched the mirror, and stared blankly into it for the whole afternoon. Until Ivan came.

"There's no use looking into the mirror, it's not clear anymore anyway. I'll bring a better mirror from my home next time." The Russian man rested his chin on the crook of Yao's neck and said softly.

"Enough, I don't want to see too clearly either." Yao Wang answered wearily.

Even his lungs hurt when he took a deep breath.

"I'm tired, Ivan."

He massaged the sore joints and tidied up his clothes as he stood up. The red marks along with the scars still caked with blood rested painfully on Yao's skin. Violet eyes trailed across the marks following every horrid experience.

"…..He touched you?"

"He?" a wry smile spread across the narrow face. Yao laughed coldly and his gaze suddenly turned as sharp as a knife, "… _They_."

The hatred would remain.

That night, Ivan was terrifying. Wrathful, violent, and completely irrational. He was already tirelessly energetic, so he was unstoppable. Who knew he could be so crazed even without consuming alcohol.

Yao thought he'd be torn apart, the violet eyes have never been so foreign to him, strings of red blood vessels crept from the corners of the eyes, and they stared at him with fury and woe.

Even you wouldn't let me go, right? Ivan?

Braginski destroyed what little faith Yao had.

Some things are perfectly clear even without the reflection of mirrors.

When he woke up the next morning, Ivan had already left. The room was a mess, there were marks of humiliation everywhere. Yao didn't hear from Ivan for a long time after that.

His leader escaped in a panic, he ran away from Yao with a flustered and absurd figure. Yao forced himself to sit up from the bed and gripped the only valuable that hadn't been stolen from him—the gold silk quilt. He sat there, silent for a long moment.

Then, with a whelm of rage, he flung the quilt into the fire place along with the few opium pieces left.

"Yao Wang, it's time you woke up!" he spoke into the person in the mirror. Then, he grabbed a pair of scissors and tuft by tuft, cut away the long hair. The strands of hair floated to the ground and piled up like feathers, carrying the remaining smell of opium and old history.

He wrapped a string around his black hair three times and tied it securely then changed into new simple and tidy clothes. Yao took a deep breath, and pushed the doors open in a resolved manner.

The rays of sunshine shot in and lit up every crook and rotten corners of the small room.

"Long time no see." Yao gazed up at the sky and a small smile formed on the still slightly ill-looking face.

Quitting drugs was a painful process. He hurt, his people hurt as well. He tried his best to encourage and spur them on—even if he, himself looked weak and was on the brink of collapsing—he always forced himself to be strong and endure it all, and show reassurance and a gentle smile to his people. He understands that anyone else can give up, but only he could not.

Despite that, when night falls, he would still secretly creep back to his room and hide underneath the old patched-up quilt and silently weep. He'd pretended for too long, he'd get tired too. But there wasn't anyone for him to cling onto, to embrace, to at least offer him some warmth.

"…..I mustn't always rely on those bastards, I only have myself." he said to himself and wiped roughly at his eyes with a bandaged hand.

That year, Yao heard that his formerly east-european lover and Kiku Honda were at the Yellow Sea, fighting at Manchuria. It was said that the european superpower wanted to seek justice for his east asian partner. Yao just laughed, not touched at all by the news. Because it could not be clearer to him that Braginski just wanted to seek benefit for himself.

In the end, the reckless bear just got upset over his defeat and lumbered home angrily.

Yao smiled mockingly and rested his hand on the wooden windowsill, it was rough and pricked at his hands. He gazed at the grey and foggy sky, his mood suddenly turning lighter.

The days continued on in disarray as usual, though Yao was still recovering from the various oppressing countries, he was starting to see some light in his path again.

The First World War erupted. The European lot were wrangling about. Britain and France were badly hurt, but Ludwig had an even bigger burden of paying all the debts, and now he couldn't even muster up any energy to sit up because of all the land that he'd lost.

That battle changed his far away east-european lover.

Yao heard that at Ivan's home, everything was utterly chaos. He went though major reforms and even changed a boss. The new boss sized up the situation and had Ivan pack up and leave the battle mid-way, not even warning the other allies. Arthur and Francis had almost passed out from rage at hearing about the Russian withdrawal.

 _'Comrade Braginski'._

Yao read to himself and smiled—what a nice honorific.

Be that as it may, Yao truly saw what changed Ivan—The Second World War. Yao had frantically grabbed a random rifle laying around that one of Kiku's soldiers had left behind. He crouched in the battle trenches, but only then realized that he had no idea how to use the rifle.

The sound of explosions reverberated faintly in the distances, the shrapnels and fragments of mortars spattered on the burnt soil, such an unfamiliar and strange battlefield. He rolled his sleeve up and wiped at the blood on his face, he pressed himself on the rough and rugged trench, gasping for breathes.

No one came to help him.

A cannon explosion sounded harshly near his ears, he flipped his body over in a panic and narrowly escaped the damage. But in his attempt to crawl toward, a small sharp stone cut into his calf and made a deep gash. He groaned in a low voice from the pain and pressed his hand on the injury to prevent more blood from flowing out. Right at the next moment, another deafening explosion boomed near him. He felt like his eardrums were about to burst; the scorching hot air wave gushed towards him, carrying bits and pieces of shell fragments. The asian nation didn't have enough time to dodge, so he instinctively flattened himself on the ground. He felt all the metal shards shooting into the ground around him, then, something heavy pressing on top of him.

After what seemed like a million years, the surroundings started to quiet down a bit. It hadn't been as painful as he thought it would be, so he lifted his head from the dirt, coughing. He twisted his head around, curious of what had been shielding him, but when he saw, he almost choked on his own spit. Why, it was that childish, seemingly harmless face smiling back at him. The irises still a familiar violet.

"Hello, Yao!"

He wanted to flip over and slap that damn smile off his face and yell 'What, do you that this is funny, just appearing like this?' The words whelmed in this throat but he just blinked and swallowed it back.

"R-Russia! Dammit, I could have escaped that even if you weren't here." was all that he could muster up.

The pale-haired man squinted his eyes and smiled in amusement.

"Do you even know how to use a gun?"

Yao couldn't argue.

Ivan was very skilled. One shot for one enemy, not a single bullet gone wasted. If he ran out of ammo, he would use the butt of the rifle for smashing against the enemies' heads. Or he would straight up use the bayonet at the end of the gun and stab into the throats of the enemies.

Yao followed behind him, watching with cold sweat.

Ivan wiped off a blotch of blood on his face and looked back at Yao, "You have to learn to be merciless, that is the key to survival here."

He then smiled again against the sun. Ivan had really changed compared to the last time Yao saw him. Yao kept his gaze locked on Ivan's back as the tall nation marched away with massive steps, his long scarf floating behind him, mixing with the smoke and sun rays. The path that Ivan has taken overlapped with the path that Yao himself once took a long, long time ago.

* * *

Ivan taught him how use guns.

The persistent nation practiced for days, often forgetting to eat or sleep. Even in the cold nights, Yao would be in the shooting range. The gun shots would sound again and again through the lonely night air, disturbing Ivan from his sleep.

"Yao, enough, if you keep on being so… _perpetual_ , I won't teach you anymore!" Ivan hastily threw his thick jacket around his shoulders and went outside to yell at Yao. "Plus…it's in the middle of the night….I'm freezing too…" Ivan grumbled some more to himself.

Yao didn't reply.

Ivan sighed and bent over to the shorter man and said in a softer tone, "Even if you're anxious and worried, it won't be of use. Things like this take time to get a hang of."

Yao kept silent for a moment, then whispered softly, "I hate him, Ivan."

"I know." he enveloped Yao into a sturdy embrace, fingers combing into the soft, dark hair, "I know. But we must be patient."

He rested his chin against Yao's forehead and said, "I will make Kiku Honda pay one day."

Yao's heart jumped fretfully as he gripped at Ivan's shirt, nestling his face into the other's warm chest. He had waited so long for this—for this strong support to rely on.

"Ivan, last time you joined in with Francis and rummaged about at my home, I hated that. I was furious with you. This time, you mustn't disappoint me again. Or I don't forgive you."

Ivan grinned and replied sincerely, "Of course."

Under the moonlight, the Bolshevik's metal pinned onto Ivan's jacket seemed a bit thorny.

Yao had finally decided to listen to Ivan and eased up. When he finished washing up and was lying on the bed, his body was sore all over. Ivan watched with amusement as Yao tossed and turned about on the bed with an uncomfortable frown. He draped a paw on Yao and put up an air-headed face, "Where does it hurt? I'll massage it for you!"

"N-no where…." Yao scooted away warily. How can Ivan still be good as new after a whole day of tiring battle? And plus, the last time Yao saw him, they were still the same height. Now he had to look up to the Russian man.

Ivan didn't notice his worries and yanked on Yao's arm, earning a yelp of pain and surprise. He smiled, "Lying isn't a good habit, Yao."

"Fine…my leg hurts," Yao sighed and confessed, "And my feet hurt as well. Those two places hurt the most."

"Hm, leg pain is pretty normal, but feet…." Ivan flipped over to look at the shoes laying next to the bed, then asked, "Do those shoes fit you well?"

"Not really, they're a bit tight."

"Then why don't you change a pair?"

Yao grumpily replied to the other, "Who was it that cleared everything from my house, huh? You even have the nerve to ask…"

Ivan rubbed his nose innocently, "It wasn't only me…"

Both nations lapsed into silence for a moment.

Then Ivan opened his mouth to say, "….I was pretty provoked at that time, I was thinking if they were taking action, I couldn't just sit there and watch, I didn't want _them_ to take everything. You know me, I'm very selfish."

"…You're the most selfish."

Ivan didn't protest, but he deliberately put more pressure to Yao's knee that he was massaging. A cry of pain sounded through the night.

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 **TO BE CONTINUED**  
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Thx for reading! Feedback is always appreciated~


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Ivan prepared a pair of his own boots and gave them to Yao.

"Try them on."

With the laces folded in multiple 'x' shapes, he tied it tightly into a knot and tried walking around in the new shoes. Yao tilted his head up and smiled at Ivan, "It's a bit big."

"Better than having it a few sizes too small." Ivan walked over and patted his shoulder, obviously pleased.

Yao wore these shoes to the battlefield.

"You're coming with me?" Yao asked Ivan who was standing next to him. Ivan nodded back.

"But your home is in a weak state, are you sure it's a good idea not go back?" Yao asked in concern.

Ivan gripped the alcohol bottle and gulped down the remaining liquid. He tossed it aside and answered, forthright, "It's just about settled down. There's no need to go back for the time being."

Ivan saw that Yao was about to protest again—trying to convince him to check on his country's situation—he slug an arm around Yao and pulled him close. His embrace was firm, as if not allowing Yao to object.

"You should probably be careful from now on, we are already in the non-secure zone, товарищ Yao."

The Chinese man arched an eyebrow.

"What?"

Ivan smiled, "Comrade Yao."

Yao laughed out loud, "Don't use that strange honorific of yours."

"It's strange?"

"Very."

Ivan combed a hand through his hair and said, "I wasn't used to it either at first, but I was touched by the warmth my people had. I think it's quite nice—the honorific. I thought comrades were my only way out, Yao, it was like a mirror. I saw the twisted and the truth through the reflections. The way of the Bolsheviks have my future reflected clearer than anything."

Yao said no more, he kept his head down and kicked a pebble under his foot.

"China, will you come with me?" Ivan asked him. So suddenly, but so calm. He made it seem like it wasn't even important.

"…"

Yao didn't even have the chance to reply before Ivan's expression suddenly turned alarmed. He flipped over and pushed Yao onto the ground, a booming sound of explosion following right after. The skin exposed to the air felt the hot wave of the blast, the debris ceased to stop scratching on their skin. Yao subconsciously gripped onto the clothes on Ivan's chest, his finger unknowingly getting slit by a corner of the Bolsheviks' star badge. But he couldn't worry about such a trivial injury at a time like this.

The scent of alcohol on Ivan's scarf wafted into his nostrils, he almost couldn't breathe.

Right amidst of the chaos, the haste sound of footsteps sounded somewhere close by, followed by harsh yelling. Yao stiffened immediately. It was the language of Kiku Honda.

Ivan had obviously heard it too. In one swift motion, he pushed himself off the ground with one arm, the other already readying the rifle. He stood and aimed at the enemy soldiers. A group of soldiers from Kiku's home appeared from the morning fog, their silhouettes becoming clearer. Yao saw Ivan's brows furrow as he pulled the trigger.

 _Bang!_

Blood flied into the air.

Bullet shells endlessly showered out of the rifle, there were angry howls and gunshots to be heard everywhere. The unfamiliar language he had once spoken with warmth sounded with fury from the enemy war commanders shouting orders. There were about 10 to 20 of Kiku's soldiers—probably vanguards sent to investigate the war surroundings. Their eyes were filled with red wrath as they charged towards them, bullets erupting from their guns and rifles like devils sent straight from hell.

Ivan was not a bit less monstrous than them. He never failed to return the bullets as he dodged theirs. Aiming viciously, mercilessly.

One of the soldiers fell victim to Ivan's bayonet, getting impaled in the eye. Ivan directly tore the eye out of its socket in a motion to aim the rifle at another's chest, shooting the enemy.

But no matter how hard Ivan tried, it was still unfeasible for him to take down 10 people at once by himself. Plus, the reinforcement soldiers could arrive at any moment.

"What are you doing just sitting there?! Shoot!" Ivan turned his head to yell at Yao in the middle of the suffocating smoke.

"I….I'll miss!"

What Yao was worried about wasn't really about his aim. It was that he still couldn't get used to fighting like this. It was too gruesome. Especially after watching Ivan fling the eyeball off his bayonet blade onto the ground, then seeing the eye being trampled on by multiple people until it was reduced to muddied pulp.

At the screams of agony, Yao jerked his head up to see some soldiers writhing in pain on their last breaths next to Ivan's feet. They clawed and groaned into the soil, staining it with warm blood.

The faces of the dying would always be the same, wouldn't they? No matter which nationality.

At this, Yao suddenly thought of his own people, they were dying just as painfully. Even those innocent citizens who weren't soldiers couldn't be spared.

Buried alive. Stabbed to death. Strafed.

He would hear each and every voice calling his name with their last breaths. Full of pride, yet full of despair.

These people before him were the culprits.

With that thought, he finally grabbed his gun. His hands still trembling.

"I'll miss!" this time, it was his true words.

"You can do it! You're China! The country that I recognise!" Ivan shouted back while shooting at a soldier's knee.

Yao clenched his teeth.

"Comrade Braginski, when this war is over, teach me that Bolshevism of yours!"

The gunshots rang from all directions. A huge gust of wind cut by like a blade.

Yao could not quite catch if Ivan replied or not.

That day, they fought side by side. They took down numberless enemies. They walked over skullcaps of corpses and sticky blood; under the empty sky, the vault of heaven, they've never been so resolute.

Nevertheless, when they returned to their campsite at the end of the day, Ivan was still mumbling darkly, "Those bastards still deserve more death…"

Yao wiped off the blood and soot on his face with a towel, then tossed another one to Ivan.

"Go wash your wounds and get them treated, I saw you get hurt today."

"…Yao."

"Hm?"

Ivan was running his fingers along his rifle. The blood from earlier on had stained the weapon, forming rusty solids.

"You felt like you couldn't kill them, didn't you? You went soft on them." the violet-eyed man asked.

"…Of course not. There's nothing to show mercy to." Yao sat beside him and loosened his shoelaces, answering, "They've already murdered so many of my people. I'm not a god, of course I'll come to hate them."

"But you looked like you had a hard time killing them today."

Yao leaned his sore back on the soft pillow and said, "I killed them, Ivan, I'm not as soft-hearted as you think I am. Although I haven't fought like this in a long time, the vicious side of me is still there somewhere."

Ivan leaned in, looking him in the eye and smiled, "I never would have known."

Yao just 'humph'-ed in distain.

He has lived for five thousand years. The more he's seen, naturally, the more he would be scared of.

He was betrayed; he learnt to be doubtful.

He'd fallen hard; he learnt to choose his steps carefully.

He is deeply aware that to survive means to destroy whatever threat there is, even the innocent sometimes could not be spared. Everyday, devouring the skeletons of the lives; having to live with the pain and remorse. He watched his many bosses kill even their own allies. One dynasty after another. One generation after another. Son murdering father, officials murdering emperors…brother going after brother. The ages to come were formed with blood and tears.

He has seen too much, he was already numb to all the pain and hurt. He has come to understand this absurdity as well. It was all just a fake mask put on the many insincere humans.

That was what even the powerful Ivan could not see through.

But Yao had underestimated his kindness. In the end, he was still filled with a rushing torrent of warm and jubilant red blood. That was his nature. Full of passion and life. But all the hatred and schemes going on in this era had covered his original personality up.

So Ivan was ultimately right about him.

* * *

"You really needed some kick-ass for you to realize that I'm the Hero!" Alfred said angrily while stomping a foot Kiku's head.

The Second World War came to an end.

The defeated suffered great injuries. Kiku allowed Alfred to continue stepping on his head, his dark hair draping lifelessly over the just barely open eyes. He felt a horrible sense of humiliation on himself. Yao gazed at the half-covered pupils as he suddenly flashed back to a long, long time ago. Back to the time at the little island covered with fluttering red maples dancing in the wind, where there was a little boy with ever so bright onyx eyes. He sat on the stone steps with his little hands wrapped around his legs, his voice so crisp and clear.

 _"Nii-san, would you come visit me more often?"_

 _The rays of sunshine shooting through the maple leaves created patched patterns around the stones and ponds, it was like a painting of warm summer colors._

 _"Of course," he gently stroked Kiku's short, black hair, "Anything for my little Kiku."_

Yao Wang closed his eyes. The ocean wind scraped at the corners of his eyes, clawing at him painfully.

"What's wrong?" Ivan asked with concern, "Is it your injuries? Are they starting to hurt again?"

Yao bit his lips, not talking and he shook his head.

It was unusual for Ivan to be so understanding as he didn't ask further. He just took Yao's hand in his own and gave it a squeeze.

"Alright, I'll leave you to sort out the mess yourselves." Alfred gave Kiku a final kick and left to return to Arthur's side, chewing on his hamburger.

Yao's heart lurched as he saw Kiku shakily standing up, wiping at the bloodied corner of his mouth. Stamping the floor with a blood mark with each step he made towards Yao.

"If he apologizes to you," Ivan whispered softly into Yao's ear, "Yao, would you forgive him?"

"No." Yao replied just as softly.

Perhaps this was a lie. There was a jumble of mixed feelings whirling around in his chest, he couldn't even decipher the thoughts himself.

Kiku Honda forced his weak body full of wounds to keep standing and slowly made his way before Yao Wang. Such a short distance felt like thousands of seasons had passed. This short path was filled with bitterness, the hatred tethering at his feet, making each step so very difficult. All the beauty and horror mixing into a bigger mess with each step.

The distance has grown too far between the two brothers. So far, that it cannot be filled again even with a whole life time. Everything reduced to nothing. Barren. Emptiness.

The two Asian nations stared stoically at each other. But Yao felt a pang of melancholy in his chest, he pursed his lips as in-noticeably as possible, trying to conceal all the overcharged emotions on the brink of exploding inside him.

Suddenly, an outrageous thought came to Yao's mind.

Had Kiku felt like this way right since the beginning?

All the squished emotions concealed under a calm facade.

Yao suddenly felt that it was all his fault for not realizing Kiku's troubles earlier.

Ivan squeezed his hand again, as if trying to prove something to him.

Kiku Honda stared blankly at him for a long time because suddenly murmuring in a soft voice, "Nii-san…I'm sorry…"

Yao closed his eyes, brows furrowing. There was a strange sensation inside of him, a bit of a throb in the heart, but mostly devastation. Upon millions of his people had been sacrificed in the tragic of the war, how was a simple "sorry" going to make up for all the lives lost? But, even so, what more could he ask of Kiku? Kiku Honda himself was also a victim of this brutal war.

Yao Wang reopened his eyes and looked at the torn and battered uniform of Kiku…what could he possibly give him now?

He couldn't afford anything.

The scar on his back hurt the most when it was healing. Painful and itchy at the same time, he couldn't touch it either. Or else it would start bleeding again.

Kiku suddenly started swaying in an unsuccessful attempt to balance himself on both feet. He wobbled a few times before falling like a rag doll face first into Yao's arms. Kiku's lips were a perturbing white from excessive blood-loss. Tears streamed, unstopping, down his cheeks. It unclear if those tears from from shame or remorse. The handsome face was covered with blood stains and also streaked with tears, it was a sorrowful sight.

The nations nearby were all stunned and frozen in place, even Alfred had stopped chewing on his burger.

Ivan had had enough of seeing this, he took out his pipe, wanting to shove Kiku away. But Kiku clung tightly to Yao's clothes while mumbling shakily between pauses, "…Nii-san….the shoes finally…fit…."

After sputtering out this sentence, he couldn't manage to put together another sentence anymore before covering his mouth in quiet and heartbreaking sobs.

Yao's hands were originally going to push Kiku away but they froze after the heart wrenching scene. A breeze lifted his hair and they fluttered against the wind, still a bit long. They covered his face and shielded it, making it hard to see what expression Yao had.

 _Nii-san, the shoes fit._

Those jade screens and sweet scents; the faded and yellowed-out dreams.

"Kiku, I don't need your apologizes. You may go now." he finally replied after a long moment. "Tell your people to not ever do these kinds of things again."

Yao heard Ivan scoff somewhere nearby.

Yao wanted to slap himself as well. All the oceans of blood spilled, yet Yao had just simply replied with forgiveness. He knew his people wanted the island nation to pay, to pay so that he couldn't lift his head in his next centuries….his…..his own little brother.

But still, some ridiculous part of Yao buried deep within still believed, and _knew_ that it wasn't Kiku's fault. It was all the officials, all the leaders, all the simply ludicrous human ambitiousness that led the world to where it was now. And that the pure, adorable, smiling young boy was still his little brother.

Yao pushed Kiku away and left, pulling Ivan along. Leaving Kiku weakly sitting there with an empty and desperate gaze.

The shoes fit, yet I couldn't give you anything.

===================  
TO BE CONTINUED  
===================


	4. Chapter 4

Feliciano, who was the first to surrender, was let out of captive and escorted out by Arthur. As soon as Ludwig caught a glimpse of the Italian man, he broke away from the grasps of Ivan's soldiers with all his might and rushed over to lock his arms around Feliciano with a firm embrace. After long days of utter silence and impassiveness, he wept like a child, face buried in the other man's shoulder. Feliciano stared blankly for a second before tearing a bit in his eyes as well. He then wrapped his arms around Ludwig, returning the hug.

"Don't cry, Ludwig, please don't cry anymore…"

Yao suddenly thought that they were perfect just like that.

* * *

After the war, Yao was sick in bed for a long period of time with Ivan hovering around in care of him. Yao smiled under the thick duvet, gaze trailing after the busy Russian.

"Yao, do you still bear a grudge towards Honda?" Ivan asked Yao one day while clumsily shaving the apple peel off the fruit.

Yao felt the scar on his back throb faintly.

"As I said before, I won't forgive him."

Ivan accidentally cut off a big chuck of apple again.

"But that day, you seemed like you didn't hate him at all…Yao, aren't you perhaps a little too good at lying? Or faking?"

"Perhaps both." Yao smiled calmly.

Ivan stopped the work at his hands and lifted his head, his lavender irises gazing at Yao's face.

"Then do you hate me?" he asked.

"Why are you asking me this again?"

"For real, do you hate me?" the polar bear didn't give up easily.

Yao took the apple from Ivan's hands and started peeling it with the fruit knife himself.

"If you won't peel it for me, then I'll do it myself."

"Do you hate me."

Yao finished cutting the fruit just in a few moments and he took a big bite out of it.

Ivan put his hands against the rim of the bed and continued relentlessly with his question.

"Do you hate me?"

"I don't."

"Do you believe me?" Yao smiled as he chewed his apple, "….You see, even if I do answer you, you won't believe it. Why bother asking?"

"…I believe you." Ivan felt good about himself and patted his paw on Yao, "I'll believe you this time."

Yao narrowed his eyes playfully and stuffed the remaining pieces of apple into Ivan's mouth.

"The apples from your home always taste the best."

* * *

When Yao had recovered from the sickness, his new boss had permitted him to go along with Ivan to explore the path they'd never walked before. Ivan was greatly pleased at the news.

"You have a daring leader."

"He's an adventurer." Yao smiled back.

Ivan said that he would organize an honor ceremony for Yao.

"I want to announce to the whole world that you are my little Bolshevik." He said to Yao, the badge on his chest reflected a light that shone a bit unrealistically under the sunlight.

"The world will know sooner or later." Yao took his hospital papers from the doctor, "I don't need some ceremony. You have a lot of money, why not just donate some to me?"

Ivan didn't have a lot of money.

But the ceremony was thrown nevertheless. It was located in a sunflower garden in Ivan's home. The mischievous polar bear had found some fireworks for who-knows-where, and where ever the fireworks were set off, the place would automatically become a danger zone.

"What do you think you're doing?" Yao crinkled his nose in confusion.

Ivan was excitedly fondling with a firework using his pipe.

"I heard that in your home, whenever there's a celebration, you guys would light fireworks!"

"Those are called firecrackers." Yao corrected him with amusement.

Natalia had carried a whole load of food ingredients and rum, Yao stared at those fresh vegetable leaves and was suddenly stricken that he hadn't sat down had enjoyed a meal in such a long time.

* * *

On the new year's eve, Yao was busily cleaning his house all day. He hadn't even had time to prepare his meal. When night fell, he hurriedly went to his new garden and harvested his vegetables and threw them in a pot to cook. He helped himself to a bowl of leftover rice and randomly ate the food that he could prepare. The bamboo firecrackers sounded through the cracks of his window, along with the carefree laughter of little children. Yao stabbed harshly at his rice, the hot steam from the vegetable stew blurred his vision, and the carrot had been too hot when he had put it him his mouth. He rubbed at his teary eyes.

"How did you forget to add salt? Idiot." he mumbled to himself.

He gulped his steaming stew down, the hot liquid burning its way down to his stomach, just like white spirit.

In the euphoria of the holiday, loneliness can give you a frostbite. Yao had unconsciously reminisced back to a long long time ago. When the little Mei, Hong, Yong Soo, and Kiku had noisily ran across the jade tiles in the ancient palace. Ducking under the long wooden tables, the golden poles, and the silk sash screens. The mouth-watering desserts would be stacked in plates, filling the whole table. Yong Soo would get anxious and climb onto the table and sneakily grab a handful of almond biscuits and stuff them into his pocket, thinking in satisfaction, the New Year's holiday originated in me anyways! Hahaha!

Mei would come storming angrily after him when she saw.

In those times, Yao would still be wearing the long, complicated robes decorated with golden silk. He would sit cross-legged on the dragon mat seat, holding a painted bowl. He would blow on a rice ball until it was cool enough to eat and transferred it into Kiku's mouth.

"How does it taste?"

The child had blinked contentedly at him and a smile had blossomed adorably on his face, "It's delicious!"

The candlelight swayed.

* * *

Yao blinked away some tears hanging in his eyes, and turned his head to ask Ivan, "Do you want to eat rice balls?"

The other nation eagerly nodded his head. Yao smiled and rolled up his sleeves and hoisted a big bag of flour into his arms, following Natalia into the kitchen.

"What is this, dirt?"

"No, Comrade Natalia, this is sesame paste."

"Do you need salt?"

"No, just sugar."

"How many spoons?"

Yao looked at Natalia, a bit exasperated, and wiped off some flour sticking to his hands.

"Comrade Natalia, that is corn starch." Yao smiled weakly.

The young lady, without anything to do, shrugged and walked out.

The door opened and closed again, this time, a violet-eyed polar bear walked in.

"What's this, dirt?"

"No, Comrade Ivan, this is sesame paste."

"Do you need salt?"

Yao mixed a spoon of water in the flour and continued kneading.

"No, but you can help me roll my sleeves up again, they're starting to fall."

Ivan walked over and saw that Yao's hands were covered with white flour, the tip of his nose was white as well. Ivan couldn't stop himself from laughing a bit at the sight, but quickly silenced himself when Yao gave him a warning glare. He quietly complied and carefully rolled Yao's sleeves up.

"The recipes from your house are so complicated." Ivan commented.

Yao humphed.

The sleeves of the clothes that his boss had prepared for him were very loose. When Ivan had folded the sleeve a few times up, he revealed an arm with a few old, piercing scars still remaining. Ivan softly caressed the scars with his finger tips and asked, "When did you get these?"

"When from the drug treatments."

"Does it still hurt?"

Yao kneaded harshly at the dough and said, "How about you try?"

Ivan didn't reply and stood silently behind Yao, enveloping him into his arms. Yao bit his lips and continued to beat at the dough bitterly. Ivan rested his chin at the crook of Yao's neck, still stroking at the scars. Yao felt Ivan's soft pale-blond hair fall through his collar and graze against his neck, it felt kind of ticklish.

"So heavy." he complained half-heartedly.

During the war, Yao would receive hand guns mailed by Ivan from time to time. They would often come with foodstuff and a letter, neatly packaged in kraft paper. The mailman had told him that Ivan sent word of "You should change your shoes if the one that I gave you still don't fit."

Yao smiled at that, but continued wearing those military boots that were a few sizes too big for him.

He didn't know why he felt so excited.

* * *

The howling wind was so strong, to a point where it hurt his eardrums. He crash down to the battle trench, gasping for air in huge breaths. North Korea was sprawled out behind him, injured and un-moving. When Yao had finished taking care of his wounds, he had clung to Yao's sleeve, not saying a word with tears silently streaming down. The tears made stains along the ash covered face, the blistered hands trembling.

"It's alright, North," Yao comforted weakly to him, "You'll be fine, I'll be here with you." He said as he stroked the hair matted with blood, one stroke after another, as if trying to send hope straight into North's heart. But North just shook his head, chapped lips parted to say in a very, very soft voice.

"Hyeong….I miss Yong Soo…I miss him so much…"

Yao bit harshly on his lip, innerly willing himself not to let his tears fall. But the effort was fruitless, warm tears came streaming down out of his control. He tightly embraced the young fighter, it was as if he was embracing his younger self. Yao whispered continuously to North, "Don't you fret. Yong Soo will be back in no time, he'll definitely come back. You're his brother, North, how can he leave you?"

You're his brother.

…How can he leave you?

Those memories tinted with a fragrance of blossoms. Untouchable now, as it evaporated in the swirling smoke. It was as if it was only a moment ago, South was still holding hands with his brother and was saying in his cheerful voice, "The Mooncake Festival originated in me! North and I won't ever be separated! Let's go home, okay?"

The next moment, South was standing behind America shouting with a grim voice, "Everyone, fire!"

We were once living under the same roof.

You and I.

Us. Dressed in long robes reaching our feet, sleeves floating in the ocean breeze. We thought it would be forever. The happiness in the olden days now washed upon a desert shore.

North.

Yao glanced back to look at the dark eyes of his fellow brother and thought to himself, You've did all you can, now leave the rest to me.

"That's enough now! I won't let you guys take a step forward anymore!" Yao flung himself out of the trench and threw a grenade into the enemy front lines.

 _Boom!_

The sky was instantly filled with ash and dust. The tiny pebbles showered like sand into his collar. He should have worn a scarf to the battle like Ivan always did.

Suddenly, a grey-coloured aircraft came into sight, gliding across the the sky. It spiralled a few times before landing beside the trench on Yao's side. The strong force of the wind swept the debris on the ground into the air. Yao raised his arms to shield himself from getting hit, his uniform flapping against the wind.

"Comrade Yao!" out the cockpit came the familiar Russian man with pale blonde hair, smiling as bright as the sun, "How are my flying skills?"

Yao had almost fell right over from shock.

* * *

The people from America's home hadn't even been fighting at their best efforts, despite that, North was still badly wounded. He had finally caught a glimpse of Yong Soo but his Southern brother was immediately shielded behind America. Ivan had came to the battlefield as soon as he could after he'd settled down the situation at his home.

One night, he had stayed with Yao and North Korea.

"Does he kick at the quilt in his sleep?" Ivan asked as he watched Yao put North to bed.

"Yeah, but still better than you. You kick at people."

Ivan sheepishly rubbed at his nose and answered, "Say, Comrade Yao, have you thought of a time where we won't have to be forced into battle?"

"…No, it won't be of use thinking about those things. All the countries that are innocent and those who deserve to be punished all are dragged into the cruel wars. This is a messy world."

Ivan arranged the firewood with a twig, the orange flames flickering about on their bodies, casting long shadows. The both of them remained silent for a while, only the sound of the crackling fire filling the room. The quietness lasted a few seconds before Ivan's voice cut through.

"Comrade Yao, let us bring the flame of hope of the Bolsheviks to the world. When we do that, we won't have to be bullied in unjust ever again. I promise." he said as he patted his hand to his Bolshevik's badge on his chest.

Yao smiled and gazed at the campfire while hugging his legs.

"Of course." the east asian nation replied softly but determinedly.

The warm colours of the flame flickered from dim to light again and again in the small den, reflecting the most glorious dreams in the fighter's eyes. That is, Ivan's carefully planned map, a strong sense of purpose. Such an illuminating light.

* * *

 **Yeah, North is N. Korea...too lazy to find a name for him**


	5. Chapter 5

Alfred sat grumpily before the long conference table and signed the armistice agreement. It was the first time he'd tasted such a frustration in misfire. He glared daggers the whole time at Ivan and Yao, puffing his cheeks childishly. The Soviet nation maintained an innocent smile while sitting beside the window, fondling with his water pipe and softly singing to himself. He used a voice that Alfred could just hear from the distance he was in.

"Stalin's party, Stalin's party, the brilliant Bolsheviks…"

Alfred was on edge of crying with rage while Yao sighed at Ivan's silly antics.

North and South Korea were seated on the other side of the table. Between the two nations was a military demarcation line. A line that neither had accomplished to step over.

It hid the greying affections, and buried the old history.

The Korean War had come to an end.

* * *

"This world is pretty fake, isn't it, Comrade Braginski?" Yao rested his head on Ivan's shoulder and smiled mysteriously.

The autumn wind swept the dry leaves from the ground and they fluttered around the plaza with faint swooshing sounds.

Ivan unfurled his scarf and wrapped it around Yao's neck too, and together they shared the warmth of the soft woollen material. It was so comfortable, pray that it could keep the lovers together until the end of history.

Ever since the Korean war had ended, Yao had been going through quite a few hardships. Ivan couldn't stand it anymore, so he decided to help Yao renovate his home. Hence, on a Saturday afternoon, Ivan came to find Yao working on a sunflower patch, hands covered in dirt.

"Comrade Yao!" He shouted and waved. At his voice, Yao straightened up and gazed back at him.

"Slow down, don't trip yourself." he replied mildly.

Ivan reached him with just a few bounds and clasped his hand on Yao's shoulder, "My boss agreed. Starting from tomorrow, my people will come and help you create airplanes and railroads. I will help you build up your home."

Yao's eyes widened as he stared in surprise. The dirt fell off his hand with plunks into the earth.

"Don't worry about it, leave everything to me." Ivan smiled at Yao, "As long as I'm here, everything will be alright. No one will bully you again. Even that American."

Warmth and gratefulness filled the dark eyes of the asian nation. He reach out and took the soldier into an embrace. They held each other with trust and faithfulness among the sunflowers. The sun shone comfortably on them.

That year, the sunflowers had just been planted in the soil.

 _"You must put the gear in this way, Comrade Yao."_

 _"I'm hungry, make me some rice balls, Comrade Yao."_

 _"Do not trust anymore apart from me, Comrade Yao. They will never help you as sincerely, do you understand?"_

* * *

"Comrade Yao." the Slavic nation called to him among the maidenhair forest. The lavender eyes smiled so gently. He stood in the middle of the dancing golden leaves with his arms extended towards Yao. His scarf flowed in the wind.

"Come here."

Yao 'tsk'-ed but did as the younger nation requested. He stopped before Ivan and let him envelope him into a hug.

"Comrade Yao, let's execute the likes of Jones and Kirkland together. That way we can live at ease and at peace. No one can pose a threat to us again."

Yao blanched and stared at Ivan. It took him a moment to recover and find his words.

"Comrade Ivan, have you gotten high? Perhaps drank a little too much?"

Execute.

To do something as horrifying as those deeds done in the Second World War?

Ivan shook his head and said bitterly, "No, Comrade Yao, you don't understand how much they despise me. America would be happy to send me up to his beloved God anytime. Before the Second world war, Kirkland and Bonnefoy were praying for Beilschmidt to come crush my throat, ha, but in the end? In the end France was the first one to get mauled to the ground."

His smile was a tad unsettling, it gave off a malicious vibe.

Looking at Ivan's face, Yao was reminded of the dark past he'd rather not remember. He couldn't but shiver at the chill sent up his spine. He wanted to back away, but Ivan's hand remained hook on his waist. He had a strong grip and Yao could not break free.

"Let me go, Ivan." he said softly.

"No," Ivan tightened his grip, "You are mine, Yao, I won't let go. Unless you agree to stay with me, stay with me to fight against Jones."

"Russia," Yao was starting to feel distressed, "I will not get involved in these things. I am not yours either. I am different from Toris or Natalia. Please don't force me on anything."

Ivan didn't reply.

The asian sighed, shooting a look at Ivan, "Let go, now."

His gaze was strict and clear-cut on his gaunt face. He reminded Ivan of the time long ago where the Celestial Empire was still standing, and he would have to tilt his head to meet the eyes of the almighty China. The China that was still untouched by the sharp blades of katanas, no scars marred across his body, no rotting of governments was dressed proudly in black and golden silk robes, waist long hair fluttering around him. They stood in the endless grass prairie covered in a thick layer of snow.

"Stand up, Ivan Braginski, I shall bestow the Lake Baikal upon you!"

Puffs of clouds floated with every syllable announced, his gaze every so sharp. That day with the swirling snow would never fade from his memory.

Ivan suddenly felt a pang of unease.

He thought that if this continues on, his southern neighbour would grow too strong. So strong as to grow out of his protection. He would never have the chance to spread warmth to those slim, cold fingers. He would never have the chance to share his scarf with his lover again. And never again, would he be able to feel the sweet touch of those soft lips on his own. He had worked so hard to pull the man into his arms and have him willingly stay beside him. Was that going to be taken away so easily?

The fragile love broken by the cold stares of society…?

He didn't want that.

An untamed bear could easily ruin everything.

Ivan threw open the door to find Yao resting on a bamboo mat playing with a Chinese chess piece. He mercilessly yanked him from his sitting position, the chess piece fell to the floor with a clunk.

"Someone came?" he asked, frustrated.

Yao hummed.

Ivan leaned in close with spectating eyes and asked childishly but cruelly, "Comrade Yao, am I a nuisance?"

"Perhaps," Yao replied carelessly, "Sometimes, sometimes not."

"And now?"

"The worst nuisance."

Ivan closed his eyes and dipped his head to capture Yao's lips in his own. It tasted bittersweet, was it Chrysanthemum tea?

"….Yao."

"Hm?"

"I want to tell you something."

"Go on."

"I truly love you."

"I know."

But nations were nations, all bonds were eventually severed because of politics and social complications, they both were very well aware of that. But he still managed to whisper out the sentence he came to regret so much years later.

"I love you, Yao. So become mine?"

It is a nightmare to me that you'd become someone else's.

My Bolsheviks, I have already failed, haven't I?

I've become addicted to a certain kind of feeling.

I love you, Yao. So become mine?  
Braginski, I've told you before. That's not possible.

The tea set was flipped over, the sepia-colored liquid dripped down the wooden table with pitter and pattering drops, wetting Yao's clothes. The dark stains were like toxic liquid.

The black and white chess pieces scattered on the floor as well.

The well planned formation fell apart helter-skelter. It pierced all over his heart.

The Russian hadn't came to visit ever since the dispute with Yao. The next time they met was at the Bucharest venue, it was a cloudy and dreary day, the clouds were floating gloomily over their heads like a glass of foam knocked over.

* * *

They both sat on opposite end of the long conference table, the atmosphere hanging heavily upon the air. Yao didn't spare a single glance at Ivan, but he knew that Ivan wasn't doing well either because Toris, who was sitting next to him, had snapped several pens out of nervousness throughout the meeting and was constantly asking Natalia for handkerchiefs to wipe at his cold sweat.

The time crawled silently away.

It was Ivan's turn to present his speech. The chair creaked as it was pushed along the floor. The Russian man stood up with an unsettling smile, "It's good to see that everyone is still healthily breathing and living."

Yao noticed as Toris again was patting nervously at his forehead with the handkerchief, emerald eyes filled with anxiety.

"Although there isn't anything too important that I need to pronounce, but concerning Mr. Yao Wang's actions lately, I have to say that I am deeply concerned and in disagreement." Ivan continued.

Up until now, Yao was insouciantly flicking and turning his pen but at Ivan's words he instantly snapped his head up, staring at him in disbelief. But Ivan would not meet his gaze. The somewhat grey rays of light illuminated dimly from the continental glass windows, kissing at Ivan's pale blonde hair. His face was partially hidden by the shadows cast by the light, making his expression rather unreadable.

A flock of white doves fluttered across outside the window, the colors of sunset seemed like it was shattering the glass.

"Mr. Yao Wang and his comrades' actions have been extremely offensive towards my own national missions and purposes. As a country with a more advanced awareness, I…."

The sounds soon faded into static silence, but it still bombarded against Yao mercilessly. The fellow countries were all staring at Ivan and Yao with cold, piercing gazes. Some were full of surprise, some with mockery, some confused, and some with pure schadenfreude. There was a sick buzzing in Yao's ears making him feel nauseous, disgusted, and repulsive.

Yao didn't know how long Ivan continued to talk, he noticed only the opening and shutting motions of his mouth. He carried on for a long, long time.

The meeting had ended.

The nations flowed out of the conference room like fishes in a stream, un-orderly footsteps sounding from all the nations passing by. Yet Yao still remained seated, leaning back on the chair while harshly rubbing at his temples. Ivan gathered up all his files into a plastic folder then walked past him, his long scarf flailing into a curl behind him.

I don't want you to become anyone else's, Yao.

I will blind you and severe your paths, I will deprive you and throw you into starvation, I will rob you of your allies, leaving you to suffer alone.

…All because this is the only way you would come to me for support. The only way you would willingly rely on me. To cry to me, beg me. So…

I'm sorry, Yao.

Ivan left quietly with his head bowed down, no one could see what sadness, pain, and stubborn love he'd been concealing in his eyes. This love that was so real it shredded his heart into pieces. Ivan had grown up in loneliness and had learnt to fight and crawl for his life in the cold, harsh snow. Hence, losing what precious warmth he found right through his finger tips was his greatest fear. Selfishness and glutton for gentleness and warmth had become a bad habit of his.

Yao irritably combed his fingers through his hair, his other hand slamming harshly on the long, wooden table. He reached to grab his cup for a sip of tea to quench his dry throat.

He felt his hand being stopped with a gentle touch.

"Yao-san, the tea is already cold."

Yao raised his head to see Kiku's personable face, his long lashes lowering as he said cooly, "Do you mind if I refill some for you?"

His voice was so calm and mild, it was as if there hadn't been any smoke risen from battles, any blood spilled between them, any dark plots or murder. But what was keeping them from going back to what they once were was the withdrawn and faraway tone in Japan's voice.

Yao was first confused as to why Japan was even here, but he then realized that he'd forgotten that Kiku had an appointment to conference with Alfred and the bunch today in the room just next this one.

The old scar on his back throbbed slightly.

"No, but thank you."

Kiku moved his lips, but no sound came out.

Yao closed his eyes wearily and sipped his tea, his brows knitted together for a split second.  
"

You've finished your meeting with Alfred?"

"…Yes." Kiku paused for a moment, as if he wanted to say something, but the words somehow came out as, "Is the tea cold?"

Yao shook his head. He just felt cold in his heart.

The blood felt like tides gushing in his chest, running over his many old, faded scars. Spotted specks of light melted into a single tear sliding down the blade of a samurai's katana. At this moment, Yao suddenly was hit with a pang of thought that their relationships with fellow nations were just like a game. When the game ended, knives cloaked in blinding lights would pierce through their flags, ripping them apart. All so familiarly.

It was like trying to touch the moon by reaching for the reflection in a pond.

Him, Ivan, Kiku—their only links of association were the self-regarding benefits and profits they seek in each other.

There was never such a thing as "forever".

"I need to go." Yao said tiredly, "It would be bad if our bosses or anyone saw us talking."

As he tidied up his papers, he noticed from the corner of his eye that Kiku was staring at him with every move he made. The loneliness in his gaze was so similar to Ivan's.

Kiku's voice was full of hesitation as he said uncertainly, "Yao-san….from now on, I….I'm going to walk alongside America-san."

Yao's hands paused for a millisecond before carrying on with the work. He forced the corners of his lips up in a smile full of bitterness.

"Then I wish you guys a long and successful copartnership. I assume that you are held in a high position in Alfred's heart? He's came to realize how much he appreciates your company ever since the fight with North and Yong Soo."

Kiku remained quiet on his chair, biting his lip. Yao tossed the last pen in his bag and smiled at Kiku, "I hope your partnership can last _forever_."

After saying that, he felt a stuffy rise in his chest. The scar on his back, the harsh words of Ivan, they all carve their way painfully into his bones. It looks like he wouldn't be able to get rid of it even for the next 5000 years.

Yao turned and left.


	6. Chapter 6

**This chapter mainly revolves around the Sino-Soviet split that happened in the 1960s. Now, there's no "one" date that it happened on, so it's not all in September like it's mentioned in the chapter. The split happened throughout the years (border disputes, criticism to client states, withdrawal of soviet troops in China) but I thought it gave a "sadder" feeling to be in September hhaha because you know, September is the end of summer where all the warmth goes away and the winter coldness starts creeping in…I don't know, that's just what I thought (lol), so September it is!**

* * *

Stepping outside, he looked up at the sky. It was grey and cloudy, there was a streak of gloomy, pale crack of the sky on the horizon.

He took a few steps forward until he heard—

"Mr. Yao Wang."

There was a voice, but no one to be seen.

Strips of torn paper came fluttering to the ground.

Then, the following thousands of numerous torn pieces of paper came swirling down. Yao raised his head in the mass white rain, and he saw Ivan sitting on a second-story balcony, holding a stack of papers. He tore them apart roughly and brutally. Then with a tilt of his hands, the papers were taken by the wind and landed everywhere messily below, where Yao was standing. Ivan turned his head ever so slightly to smile at Yao with those violet eyes. His beige-colored cashmere scarf flowed against the cold wind. Ivan's smile was so distant and far away, it was untouchable and out of reach, as if it was separated by a thick, forbidding fog.

Yao narrowed his eyes and frowned at the European man.

"What are you doing, why haven't you headed back?" he asked.

Ivan didn't answer. Instead, he pulled out another stack of papers from his folder, then read loudly, "'Sino-Soviet Treaty of Friendship, Alliance, and Mutual Assistance'; 'Sino-Soviet friendship and mutual assistance contract research'…."

A jarring force of the hands.

The piercing sound of contracts being ripped.

Papers were all over the place, they flitted to the paths filled with blossoms in the garden, to the black and white stones that were once basked in warmth; printed with smooth, curling Russian letters and refined, honed Chinese characters, inked with golden duties, inked with old dreams planned to be reached together.

Imprinted with two sole loves towards each other, proving that they were the one and only for one another.

The caustic wind mocked them of their foolish and self-righteous feelings they thought to be love. But oh-so-wrong had they been. Something as beautiful as love was simply not meant to be for nation-beings like them. The small strips of paper had settled like snow on Yao's shoulders and between strands of his hair. They scraped against his face and body. He quickly closed his eyes as he felt an irritating streak of grit on the corners of his eyes. He shut his eyes from the sight of the menacing smile from above.

A sad wrinkle extended from the corners of his eyes to his temples.

It seemed like everything had fallen apart.

Maybe many years later, Yao Wang would be grateful when he thought back to the grey skies, the rapidly changing sceneries, and what seemed like would be endless emptiness. Wandering about in the coursing currents, his vision blurred as a single tear secretly and silently crept from the corner of his eye and rolled down his cheek. It turned out that they had signed so many treaties and contracts over a decade, but all those agreements could be destroyed in such a fleeting moment.

He didn't dare to try to wipe at his eyes—in fear that Ivan would see from the balcony and see the softness and fragility in him. But what he didn't know was that from the balcony that the eastern European man was leaning on, Ivan was struggling to keep his smile, his facade was broken as he cast his gaze down and had teared up in his eyes as well.

The broken contracts continued to fly.

It was like carving up a guilty crown out of his lover's bones. Something that he would carry for life, a wrongdoing he would shrivel from until he died.

Yao, if you refuse to become mine, then let me destroy you with my own hands.

The sharp blade piercing through our hands, blood mixing together, crumbling, dying, decaying. We would be one.

Isn't it better this way?

Many many years later, Ivan would bring about this topic up again just unintentionally, and Yao would candidly point out: "Braginski, if there is really nothing but profits that we find in each other, then why even bother foolishly trying to seek love?"

—But, that would not be until Ivan's country name had become "Russian Federation".

September, 1960.

The path that they had pursued on together came to an end. No more walking shoulder-to-shoulder. The path had spilt, and they walked in different ways.

Though the blossom bloomed brilliantly, the glamour never lasts. It was like the fireworks in the sky the day they had signed their friendship pact. Exploding in the empty and silent night sky, the millions of tiny twinkles vanished in mere seconds. Then it was silence and coldness again. The warmth and kindness that lovers brought about were marvelously pleasant but so, so short-lived. It was difficult to maintain a stable relationship for the beings like them. Things like that were much too ephemeral. Yao smiled bitterly at the thought.

 _I will never be young again._

History left him sighing with his worries.

* * *

They stood before the brilliant golden patch of sunflowers, the proud flowers bloomed surprisingly beautifully under diligent and meticulous care. Ivan and Yao quietly wandered along the trails between the garden until Ivan suddenly came to a halt.

"Pretty, aren't they?"

"…Very."

"Do you like them?"

"I do."

Ivan offered a hand towards Yao, his purple eyes shining unpredictably.

"Come with me, Yao, to my home. I can give you all the sunflowers you want…"

Yao shook his head and gently put his hand in Ivan's palm. Ivan felt something cold drop onto his palm, and when Yao removed his own hand, Ivan looked down at the object.

The sunshine reflected off of the Bolshevik's badge, mirroring an almost blinding light. His vision turned dark for a moment from the intense sunlight. Ivan remained silent for a moment before softly asking, "What is the meaning of this?"

"It means what you see."

"I don't understand." Ivan smiled, a dark and dangerous aura radiating from him. This wasn't the first time Yao had seen this expression. When they were fighting off the soldiers from Honda's place, Ivan would repeatedly stab them through their throats with the bayonet of his rifle, watching the blood drip down and splash into the ground. Ivan would use the same expression to whisper to the humans, "Don't cry…the pain will go away very soon." Blood ran in a thin trail down his cheeks, the 'innocent' smile chilled him to the bones.

At seeing the expression on Ivan's face, Yao unconsciously became alert and wary. He furtively sneaked his hand around his waist and gripped his hand gun. However, Ivan made no move to attack him. He didn't pull out his knife nor raise his hand to lash out at Yao. Ivan simply asked unhurriedly, "By giving it back to me, does that mean that you want to leave my faction?"

"No, I am still with you and the Bolsheviks, but just not passively following behind. I know you understand. Some paths are meant to be walked alone. When the road's too narrow, we must learn to let go of our companion's hand…Plus, you've said it yourself once at the conference too, you are very unsatisfied with the choices of my people." Yao said.

Ivan was still smiling, but it seemed stiff and forced. Yao had already quietly latched off the safety switch on his gun, his palms sweaty from nervousness. Both nations remained unspeaking for a moment before Ivan broke the silence.

"Comrade Yao, you must think this through. I am the only one you can rely on."

Yao shook his head and replied, "No, I still have myself."

Ivan stared with surprise and mockery, while he scoffed back "Do you still think that you're the 'mighty Celestial Empire', Comrade Yao?"

Yao did not reply. But his brownish-black eyes remained locked with Ivan's.

"Yao, you'll never leave me, because you can't, can you? You'll always be my Bolshevik. Without me, you won't be able to do anything."

The ridiculing expression was shifted onto Yao's face when he said, "And do you think that you're the Celestial Empire now? Comrade Ivan?"

Eyes widened and violet pupils shrunk with fury.

The valve had been opened.

Ivan's fists gripped onto Yao's shoulders so hard that his knuckles turned white and his joints bulged.

"You'll regret it, Yao Wang, you'll come crying and begging on your knees! You'll go bankrupt and you'll come to hate me, hate me so much that it scorches onto your bones!"

Yao gazed at him coldly, temperature decreasing rapidly. He said, "Braginski, do you even know of hate?"

Ivan fell into silence. Of course he did. He'd seen it all, all the tragedies General Winter could offer him. What did Yao know? His grip trembled on Yao's shoulders.

Yao continued, "Hatred is a scar that never disappears. It will hurt, it will bleed, and it will callus. But it will never completely heal."

He raised his head and gazed towards the large, seemingly endless patch of golden sunflowers. His gaze fell on somewhere unknown, a place filled with blood, darkness, and unceasing humiliation. All the once great and dominant forces withered into wan shadows reflected upon a gold, bronze mirror stained yellow. A lover who betrayed, silk sashes shredded into pieces, the stench of an unwanted substance mixed with blood. Memories Yao tried so hard to forget.

Ivan seemed to realize something with a pang of epiphany. There was a tremor in his eyes, and his throat went dry. He knew. He knew that Yao's eyes have saw through the sunflowers and rested on the Qing dynasty's palace that once stood hundreds of years ago.

"…You still hate me, don't you?" Ivan murmured, "You still hate me…and Kirkland, and what we've done in the past. You still hate me."

"…I've tried to lie to myself, that is, until you ripped apart the three-hundred contracts between us with your own hands."

"Ha!" Ivan burst out laughing as he rubbed at his pale blonde hair, "Ha, you've lied to yourself? …..Don't be ridiculous. You were trying to lie to me instead. I was the one being lied to the whole time. You…saying that you've forgiven me, and that you didn't hate me anymore ….Oh, Yao…."

His gaze was suddenly as sharp as a weapon, and his words flowed coldly out of his throat.

"You are a liar."

Liar.

Yao bit on his lip so hard that he drew blood. He lapsed into silence for a quite a while before saying, "…If I'm a liar, Braginski…then what are you?"

That gloomy day at the conference, fluttering pieces of white paper swirled in the air. Both of them had tried so hard not to show their concealed pain and remorse. The memories replayed like echoes in their hearts.

"…Ivan." he said placidly, using every muscle of his body to conceal the ache he felt in his heart and how reluctant he is of letting go. "There are only interests of benefits between us. I used you just the same as the way you have used me. As of now, our profits have been burnt down. Our game is over."

Yao paused, feeling as if he cannot go on anymore. If this continues, he fears that his facade will collapse, and that he'd grab Ivan and yank him close to yell: 'You idiot, how can you not see how much I love you? Why do you think that I haven't already threw away the old shoes that you've given me; why do you think I forgave you for what you've done in the past without a second thought; why else did I follow through the fog all these years without doubting you even once?! How can you not understand all these things, Braginski, are you blind?!'

Yet, be that as it may, Ivan just sighed deeply and pulled on that heartless smile, "It's over. Let's split up, then."

They both were too stubborn.

Liar, if that is how you see this….then so be it.

* * *

 **This last part with Yao and Ivan was just a flashback, for those of you who were confused by this sudden change in timeline :P**

 **I'll try to update more frequently in the future! ((even though school is starting...but oh well, nothing will come between me and writing!))**


	7. Chapter 7

Yao Wang didn't know how to deal with his emotions anymore at this point. He was at a loss while facing all the confusions that were never this tangled before. He wanted more than anything to tell Ivan that he really did love him. Especially during the times of war and betrayal. He'd never forget the one and only who offered a hand to him—who was at the time, struggling to survive. How warm and tender the feeling of locking fingers were. He'd never forget the image of his smiling face darkened by the backlight, the sunset painting his hair a border of fuzzy gold.

He wanted to tell Ivan he had genuinely tried to forgive him. Right at the moment when Ivan had his long coat draped over his shoulders as he walked out of the military tent; when Yao was kneeling in the shooting range in tears, crying helplessly, Ivan fiercely embraced Yao into his warm arms. From that moment on, Yao was dead set on trying to forgive Ivan. He really did try! Yao wanted to tell Ivan!

Despite that, Yao had explained slowly, but firmly, "Braginski, the reason why I had relied so much on you is like the pair of shoes that you gave me when this all started—It didn't fit, but I could use it to step out of the pools of blood and towards the light."

But he didn't tell Ivan that his real intention was that he was willing to wear those shoes to continue walking towards the end of winter and into spring. To walk towards the budding flowers and the first signs of happiness. To walk towards end of time, the limits of the Earth—with Ivan. He didn't tell Ivan that if only he could be a little less stubborn, a little more respectful to his people, Yao would be more than happy to be with him. To sing on a little wooden boat on the river of Volga together with him, to look for sunflowers and peonies together with him…together.

But even if he had all the selfishness in the world, he could not bring himself to say anything of that sort. Because standing behind him were billions of his family, his people—all hopefully looking up to him.

He suddenly understood how Alfred at felt a long, long time ago when he earned his independence from Britain. The heartbreaking affliction he felt was so agonising, yet he could not say a word about it. Because everything was all for his people.

He seemed calm as he gazed into Ivan's eyes, just like how Ivan was wearing an ever so innocent smile. The clumsy display and poorly disguised emotions were so weak that it all could be broken through with just a tap of the finger. But they both continued to lie to each other, thinking that they can lie to themselves as well. Yao stumbled after and followed Ivan for more than ten years.

 _There are only interests of benefits between us_ , he said.

Ivan, you don't understand anything. I've lived for four-thousand years, and you are still too young, he said.

 _Goodbye, Ivan,_ he said.

Far away, the people from Yao's home were noisily moving the posters that were ripped off of the street sides and throwing them into the sunflower patches, pressing the flowers and snapping some of them in the process of doing so. Ivan didn't understand what they were doing. Then, Yao smiled, vaguely covering his true emotions.

"….This is payback for shredding all our contracts."

An angry flame of fire was thrown into the mess.

Orange and red spirits clouded the sky.

Ivan and Yao watched as the mountain of mess blinked bright and dim, like a coursing river of blood, burning and destroying. The posters of 'ever-lasting' Sino-Soviet friendships melted into ashes in mere seconds. Those tiny specks of ashes polluted the sky.

They watched as the proud sunflowers wilted and withered, silently screaming and wailing. It was like the love between them—fleeting, fragile, and can disappear at the slightest of mishap.

The scorching waves of air burnt at their eyes, reddening them. The farmers said that this was them abandoning their past.

Ivan turned and left, but he didn't forget to say, "Since the shoes don't fit, just throw them away."

Violet eyes were unreadable.

Yao turned away from the flowers and papers as well and made his way home, taking large strides at a time. Ivan turned north, Yao turned south, back to back.

Then, as soon as he turned the corner where Ivan couldn't see him, he broke down, unable to pretend anymore. He weeped as tears racked his body.

Yao became very ill.

All of Ivan's people followed after their nation and had left as well. All the constructions, roads, cultural establishments, and economics were all thrown aside and left behind. At this news, Yao was struggling through his illness, trying to finish the newly set constructions. He silently listened to a soldier report the situation to him. From time to time he covered his mouth and coughed painfully. Seeing their nation's teary and reddened eyes weary from exhaustion, the workers and farmers held their gaze with worry and discomposure. Noticing the discouraged expressions of his people, Yao forced upon a smile and quickly reassured, "It's no problem, we can do this even without relying on them."

He dragged his sickened body and shakily made his way to the corner to start transferring the construction bricks.

"….Apart from this…there's another urgent report." The messenger soldier continued nervously.

"Go on."

"…Braginski's got thousands of men at our borders, it seems like he's going to attack."

The brick fell from his hands to the ground with a heavy clunk. The only thing he heard was the hammering of his heart in his ears, and the only thing he felt was the pain searing through his head. He steadied himself with a hand on the nearest pillar and urged himself to keep standing, despite his vision swimming black and white and his ears fiercely buzzing. As bizarre as it seemed, Yao's thoughts drifted back to how warm and strong Ivan's embraces felt. How being in the man's arms was the safest feeling in the world. It hadn't even been a full month since their split, yet, he'd already started to feel decades away from Ivan. It had always been unconditional support and love that Ivan had given him, but now, is it destined for Ivan to become an enemy as well?

Electric purple eyes flashed in his mind, it clutched at his throat, suffocating him, drawing blood. He felt himself choking up, and with a jolt, a throbbing cough racked his whole body as he coughed out warm, red blood. So bitter, so repellent.

He removed his shaking hand from his mouth and as he stared at the pool of scarlet in his palm, he felt the ground rushing closer and closer.

"Help! Mr. Wang has fainted!"

"Quick, carry him into the room, loosen his collar."

"Water, somebody get some water!"

Yao felt himself being lifted meticulously and hurriedly by his family members, an ice pack being placed on his forehead, and the buttons on his collars being loosened. He gripped at one of their sleeves, wanting to tell them to go see what was going on with Ivan, but his pale and cracked lips wouldn't form anything. As consciousness was slipping away from him, he whispered the name desperately and silently, followed by clear and shining tears.

 _Braginski..._

 _Braginski!_

* * *

Ivan sat in his temporary office in one of the military tents at his camp. He had his head resting in his palm, and he let his thoughts wander. The begonia flowers at Yao's home must be in blooming season now, he thought. Yet, he would never be able see them from where he was at. Begonias were fragile beauties, they would never last in the harsh snow of his.

"You're not attacking?" Natalia asked him.

"No."

The maiden was severely confused, "Then why did you come all the way here? Are you expecting your "little Bolshevik" to come jumping into your arms and give you a hug? My dear, foolish brother, please wake up. You both are too stubborn. You've come to a stalemate with him before you've even realized what you were doing."

Ivan didn't want to respond. He continued to stare blankly at the half frozen lake before their site. The waves splashed again and again on the stone shore. On the other side of the lake was Yao's home, hidden by a gloomy waft of mist, Ivan couldn't quite see the scenery on the other shore, but he knew on the other side stood a defiant red flag. A flag of Yao and his people.

Ivan rubbed at his hair, he just couldn't quite understand. Why, why is it that even though he loved Yao with all his heart, he couldn't even keep him by his side?

That night, Ivan had a dream.

 _Endless floating snow was drifting in the sky in his dream, the whole world was covered in glacial and biting white. He was still just a young child wearing a bear fur hat, stumbling and tripping through the prairie of snow. His small face frozen red. Then, a horse-pulled carriage galloped across the crystal ice-frozen lake. He rubbed at his wind-blown teary eyes and tried to decipher through the piercing blizzard the figures that were approaching. The carriage was had a black painted base with red outlines. Tiny golden bells were dangling from the top four corners of the carriage. The chiming of the bells mixed with the stomping of hooves from the horses flowed with the furious wind, crimson manes of the stallions contrasted in the ivory snow. The mysterious carriage flied towards little Ivan._

 _The carriage gradually came to a halt with the raise of a golden whip._

 _Ivan narrowed his eyes, tiny flakes speckled his lashes. The silk curtain dressed in breads was lifted with the curl of a smooth and delicate hand. An unfamiliar sweet scent wafted towards Ivan that chased away all the chills in his bones. Then, Ivan saw the tip of the bottom of the eastern traditional dress. Ever so elegantly, a face peered out from the carriage, brows lifted in curiosity._

 _"…You are…?_

 _The eastern man asked him, unlocking their fate for hundred of years to come._

 _"Ivan." The child answered without a waver in his voice, head up, and proudly, "My name is Ivan Braginski."_

It's all gone in the past. The golden empires, the manipulative treaties…

They're all gone, aren't they?

It's been so many centuries, those old reminiscent memories.

As of now, he is strong and powerful. He'd long grown out of the lost little boy who searched aimlessly for the maroon horse pulled carriage in the snow with an Ushanka on his head. Now, he can destroy anything he loathed. Naturally, including the little Bolshevik that betrayed him.

"Natalia," the next morning, he ordered Belarus who stood outside of the tent, "Retreat."

Pure threats are impractical and futile. He'd made up his mind and toughened his thoughts. He was going to make Yao pay. He was going to chase after him until Yao haven't a penny left in his pockets.

Ivan was going to show him that Russia was the true empire, the true king.

He signed the letter with a flick of his wrist and sent it to China, demanding for massive sums of debts to be repaid.

"It was I that had helped you when you've fallen, now you must return the favour."

* * *

China's boss was very strong-willed, Yao was obstinate as well. Despite being impoverished and deprived to the core, they rigidly sent check after check to the far away Kremlin Palace. Only with a single layer of military outfit, the soldiers of Yao trembled at the freezing temperature, their lips frozen blue. But they held their heads high, and not once did they complain.

After going through all that one can imagine, Yao finally arrived at the Kremlin place. Gazing at the crimson walls, it gave him a feeling that all the tides of changed and nothing was the same except for this boldly standing palace. The pine trees were covered in a thick blanket of snow, all carefully designed and neatly trimmed by Ivan's people. Yao rubbed his cheeks in hopes of warming up and took off the basket of apples that he'd been carrying on his back.

These apples were picked right at the moment Autumn had arrived, they were still a bit green but these were the best Yao could manage. Natural disasters were plaguing his home already, he'd been struggling to keep his people alive, how could he possibly find more of the ruby-red fruit for Ivan?

Yao massaged his sore muscles has he waited for Ivan's people to collect his harvests, but even after quite a while, no one had came.

"Perhaps they've forgotten about this."

The empty, extravagant palace felt so lonely and abandoned. The winds outside the windows wailed and banged against the glass like homeless souls yearning for refuge. The shrieks echoed in the courtyard walls.

The sunflowers must have wilted in such an unforgiving climate.

No sunshine, no warmth to be found.

Yao curled up against the stairs, still waiting for collectors. The sky gradually darkened, the blurred flits of snow intensified. In the middle of the flurry formed a shadow. The newcomer wore a heavy winter coat, a fur hat, and was slowly approaching step by step.

As soon as Yao caught sight of the man's face, he choked a bit. Startling cold air pierced his throat. It stung like fire.

The arrival made his way up the stairs and took off his hat to reveal soft, pale blonde hair. He glanced down at Yao, who was wearing quite a stiff expression. He felt his heart clench at the sight. He'd become even skinner since the last time they'd met. Despite the down casting thought, he kept a stoic face and still did not speak. He merely patted away the snow that had layer on him and tidied himself up.

"I've come to bring you these," Yao said coolly, "And I've been waiting for your collectors to come. I didn't think it would be you, personally, Comrade Braginski."

Ivan walked up next to him and reached to inspect an apple from the basket.

"We're currently experiencing severe weather conditions, these are the best I can gather."

Ivan narrowed his eyes, smiling as caustically as ever, "Do you think it matters to me? I don't need these, I only want the best."

He uncurled his fingers and let the apple fall back into the basket with a dull 'plunk'.

Yao shut his eyes, brows knitted together as if in pain.

"How are you doing without my help, Comrade Yao? Can you even stand without stumbling?" Ivan queried.

Yao re-opened his eyes, but did not reply.

"I hope you realize the terrible mistake you've made." Ivan added venomously.

"What have you taken me for?" Yao let out a cold breath of laughter.

He then suddenly lifted his foot to knock over the basket of apples, causing the greenish red apples to tumble out like caramel candies on the floor. With the candy jar broken, fresh and sweet romance oozed out, turning grey.

The dark-haired man turned and left, his dark green military figure faded slowly from Ivan's sight. The snow kept falling, covering layer upon layer of disappearing footprints.

Crimson apples laid silently in the milky white snow, hiding themselves in the growing coat of flakes. The fruits as warm-colored as beads of fresh blood turned so quiet and still. A love growing cold was so unforgiving and merciless.

Ivan glared at Yao's vanishing figure, and finally couldn't help but rub his teary red eyes in frustration and misery. He rushed out into the snow without a care of getting wet again and lifted the basket upright. He then plucked each and every apple out of the snow, polishing his them off with his clothes and put them neatly back in the basket. Frozen drops of ice formed on his lashes just to be harshly wiped off again, his eyes stung, but Ivan didn't care.

You owe me Yao Wang, you owe me. I loath those who betray me, especially you.

Ivan sat in the snow and took a big bite out of a fruit. He chewed angrily, feeling the juice sliding down his throat. It stung more than any spirit and liquor.

Both of them clung to their worries in ignorance that their former lovers were doing the same. Yao still wore the pair of old shoes that Ivan has given him, sewing patches and holes again and again just to keep wearing it a while longer. One line after another, not wanting to give them up—the shoes that don't fit.

…The same shoes that had knocked over the fruit basket and their love.

* * *

 **The characters are portrayed in more serious personalities, after all, this is a more of a historical fic...more than anything else.**

 **I hope they don't seem too OOC to some of you :)**

 **...TO BE CONTINUED**


	8. Chapter 8

The Russian had gone mad, and so had the American. Both men seemingly sweet and charming were playing violent and antagonists roles in secrecy. Silently fighting and discreetly destroying, yet neither dared to throw a punch out in the open where thousands of eyes watched. The state of play had continued to deteriorate for the worst—even more so when Yao had left Ivan's side. The Soviet nation vexed over the fact that the idiotic so-called 'Hero' had Arthur Kirkland by his side when Ivan's own ex-Bolshevik comrade had ripped the medal off his chest and had ran away. Ivan has since then been increasingly imperious, stubborn, and bull-headed. The poor Baltic states had to deal with Ivan's temper everyday, leaving them trembling with fright. Though they did not talk back, their thoughts have all started to shift.

"Mr. Russia has become even more intimidating these days. He's always staring at the Bolshevik metal that Mr. China left behind…along with the basket of apples." Toris commented weakly.

Natalia humphed lightly, her gaze turning cold.

* * *

Alfred and Ivan both had the same viciousness in their hearts, so even if they dared not to go out slap each other on the face, they used and manipulated anyone within their reach to do the dirty work for them—the small, vulnerable countries suffocating in their powerful grasps.

Yong Soo and his northern brother was a good example.

And this time, it was Vietnam's turn.

* * *

The Soviet nation was in a wonderful mood, he got what he wanted, all was good. He spun around in his chair, smiling while looking at Alfred, who had just arrived from a long trip.

"What is it you wanted to speak to me about? I haven't forgotten whom it was that had carved a scar in Ms. Vietnam's body."

Alfred adjusted his glasses and smiled back, "I've come just to hear your opinion on my boss's decision."

"Oh?" Ivan responded in a playful tone, "To divide the world? To seek a plan?"

Alfred's eyes were a calm and collected shade of blue, "Correct, just as your boss said, 'to divide the world'."

One cut, two slices of cake. Of course the bigger slice was more desired.

* * *

Yao had got on Alfred's bad side, he'd left Ivan as well. While trying to get back on track, he realized that his days were not as easy anymore. All the nations out there had gradually formed more and more negative views on him. As he was in the middle of fretfully trying to come up with a solution to this mess, Francis showed up.

"Bonjour, Yao~" a melodic accent sounded, along with a rich aroma of red wine floated around him. The man had asked Yao to meet him at a central park.

Yao had a thick coat thrown on the last second, his eyes were dull and carried dark circles beneath them. He still wasn't feeling well from his illness. He simply didn't have the energy to prance along with the flamboyant Frenchman.

"…Did you need something?

The blonde-haired man affectionately tousled with Yao's hair, "Hm…still got a fever I see, Ivan's comrade?"

Yao frowned with disgust.

Francis smiled.

"I wanted to give something to you." he said as he pulled out a clean, white envelope from his bag.

As Yao accepted the envelope, he shot a look at Francis and said warily, "This isn't another damned treaty, or some letter of debt that Ivan threw at me, is it?"

Francis smiled even brighter, "Seems like our little Bolshevik has really been driven out of his way by Ivan."

His perfume slightly wafted in the air.

Yao humphed coldly, but soon was bent over, coughing painfully. Alarmed, Francis quickly patted his back in worry.

"You should check in with your doctor, really. You seem too ill to be walking around like this!"

Yao waved his hand in dismissal and took a deep breath, "…Just tell me what you want to say, I still have to get back early."

Francis reached and opened the envelope and unfolded the first page.

"Yao Wang, do you want to be recognized?"

"Tell me, do you want to be recognized?"

Yao coughed violently again, then nodded his head stressfully.

"Sign this paper, and we can normalize our diplomatic relations. Then from now on, France will acknowledge your country."

The hand that covered his mouth trembled. Yao looked up to see the man with smooth, curly hair and deep, blue eyes gazing seriously at him.

Ivan once said, "no one in this world will acknowledge you except for me. You must follow behind me."

Ivan once said, "you are mine. You cannot accomplish anything without me."

Ivan once said, "Yao, there is no one in this world that can help you, and there's no one that will, either."

Francis' words proved him wrong.

"To be honest, I'm doing this just to go against that little Alfred, but at least it may help you." the man admitted before leaving.

Yao adjusted his collar, holding tight onto the precious contract. Standing under the blooming tree, he smiled with triumph.

* * *

Ivan was furious. He went on yelling about shredding apart the Elysée Palace and throwing a certain bearded man into the Volga river to feed the fishes. While Alfred, recovering from the initial shock, started to carefully plan out his next step to take, regarding his policies towards China.

* * *

Alfred was fondling with a jade pendant, swinging it about between his long fingers.

"Hey Honda, I found this laying around, thought I would give it to you as a gift." he said.

Kiku's hand twitched ever so slightly as he was pouring them a cup of tea. The corner of his lips tugged upwards into a somehow vaguely sarcastic smile.

"Are you trying to make up for my scars with jewelry, Mr. Alfred Jones?"

The man with vibrant blonde hair adjusted his glasses and smiled back, "Oh Mr. Honda, don't be like that. I don't mean anything of the sort with this gift."

Light reflected eerily off of his lens.

Kiku fell silent for a few moments before bringing the tea cup to his lips, sipping the aromatic and mellow drink. He kept his gaze down while lightly saying, "If that is the case, I will accept it."

He closed his eyes, pretending not to know. He shut all the truth and lies out of his sight. After the Second World War, he learnt of self-deception; he learnt to run away from his troubles. Kiku did not know exactly when it was that he had been contaminated with this dreadful habit—always masked and defensive when with others, it was like second-nature. Even when in Alfred's company, there was no exception. A frosty facade worn on his face. As time passes, the facade becomes a part of him, it became his skin. He could never get rid of it anymore. He deceived himself as well. He did not understand whether he was doing this solely because he was afraid of betrayal or because he was afraid that others would view him as a betrayer.

The jade pendant was of excellent quality. It was exquisitely carved into the shape of a dragon, and had a very soothing touch to it. Kiku held it flat in his palm and examined it. He suddenly felt a wave of disgust surge through him and up into his throat, like blood gushing out. He thought of himself torturing and tormenting his brother on the silken bed. Fresh blood endlessly trickling down the large slash on the other's back, staining both men a scarlet hue, like pedals of a flower shredded in disarray. The deep, red blood smeared uncannily on porcelain skin, satisfying him, yet secretly making him loath himself.

He hurriedly clamped his fingers shut, fully covering the pendant, not daring to take a second look at it.

After moments of stillness, Kiku asked out of the blue, "…Alfred, have you ever heard of a story about a jade made from blood?"

Hearing no response, he continued without waiting for one, "There was once a man who was wrongly killed by royalty who doubted his loyalty to the nation, he passed away still faithful and true-hearted. When his tomb was dug up many years later, his blood had turned into jade."

His voiced turned soft as he began murmuring to himself, "I wonder if this pedant is made from the blood of a true-hearted man…?"

His speech caused the American to laugh, "Are you really into these iffy stories, Honda?"

The grasp on the jade pendant tightened even more.

"…..No." he spoke after a pause, "It was merely an impulse."

An impulse of remembering the story a man once told him, and the words once said—

—"I hope my people can be like the man in the story, staying true and devoted even when terrible mistakes are made. No one will stop the prosperity of my land, because the same name has been imprinted on our chest…the name that has been enduring with us for the past thousands of years."

Resolved and resolute.

Kiku would never forget how he had come to make his decision. The decision to become stronger, to see the world in new light. With fresh blood, sweat, and tears. Pain that has been hidden for centuries, courage, and pride.

All that he had learnt from the once-prospering neighbouring nation. The success and the failures.

As Alfred was departing from Kiku's house that day, he muttered to himself, "….Seeing how Francis and Honda are both behaving, it all seems like a sign. It's probably time to change my ways to approach Yao's situation?"

* * *

A left turn, then right turn, another right turn.

After heaven-knows how many turns he had taken in the mundane halls of the parliament building, Yao pushed open the heavy door. As he stepped into the room, he was greeted with loud chattering of inaudible conversations.

Then, someone forcefully slammed the table with three distinct thuds.

"Quiet! Everybody shut up!" a loud and clear voice shouted into the microphone. It was none other than America, exasperated at the un-cooperative crowd.

This was the world conference room—more specifically, the United Nations conference room. A setting that China was very familiar with. In this vast room, all the nations were seated orderly and primly where their name tags were. They stared at Yao once they sensed his presence. Some with curiosity, some with disgust, and some with gazes as if they were expecting an amusing show to play out.

In the mass of nations, he spotted Kiku, who was dressed neatly in a black tuxedo. He had he hair combed tidily, and wore no expression on his face. He glanced indifferently at Yao for half a second before looking down again to arrange his papers.

Then, someone walked up the stairs to the rostrum and stood next to America. He looked down at the crowd and smiled, the Bolshevik badge on his chest as evident as ever.

"Braginsky, what are you doing up here, I'm not done talking yet." America glared at him.

Yao felt all the blood rushing into his brain as he looked fixedly at Ivan's face, unwaveringly, not able to turn his gaze away. He'd never thought that even after not seeing him for so long, he would still be so anxious at the Soviet nation's presence.

The tall, well-built man wore a thick scarf. Whenever he looked down, his lips would be slightly hidden by the edge of the cashmere. He seemed so gentle and mellow.

"Compared to your silly nonsense, don't you think that Comrade Yao's problem currently needs more attention?" he replied.

The palms of Yao's hands started to sweat immensely. He stared at Ivan, remembering his threats. He tried to make his gaze seem colder and harsher. But he was obviously failing. He cursed inwardly at his inability to mask his feelings.

Roderich, who was sitting at the side glanced at Yao, then at Ivan, then smiled. His long, elegant fingers braced his lips. At this situation, Ivan was obviously smarter than Yao. He had his head turned away, not even sparing a glance at Yao, his gaze only shifted between the other nations.

Alfred scratched his head and took a large sip of his cola, "….Alright, fine then…let's talk about Mr. China's situation first! Please, Mr. China, take a seat. Let's begin."

The lights were uncomfortably bright. Yao clenched his fists and slowly made his way forward. There was an empty seat next to Kiku, but he didn't stop. He turned to his left and continued. Kiku stared at his files, but did not see a single word. He only heard the footsteps come closer, then slowly fade away. His thumping heart beat calming with the footsteps. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, hiding his face.

"You've got to be kidding! Allowing him to join us as the People's Republic of China?" a voice sounded with disbelief.

"Disagreed. We will let him join…because I said so." Arthur humphed.

"What a phenomenon, _cher_ Arthur actually shares an opinion with me. I support Yao on this." Francis smiled his infamous flirtatious smile.

"Shut up, you git." Arthur mercilessly kicked Francis on the shin.

Alfred rested his arm on Arthur's shoulder, seemingly encouraging this situation, "If that's so, then I agree as well. What do you think, Mr. Austria?"

The graceful and sophisticated nation folded his fingers beneath his chin and smiled lightly, "I agree that Mr. China should join us."

The nations started voting.

"As of now, there are 75 votes for, 35 votes against, and 17 votes abstained." Ivan announced. His violet eyes gleaming like a flower bud filled with morning dew. He then raised his head, squinted his eyes slightly as he faintly smiled, "…And I vote for."

Right at that moment, Yao's eyes teared up. He has returned. He's returned to his place after 20 years of immobility, and now, he'd finally catch up with these nations.

In the year of 1971, October 25th. A burst of applause sounded in waves throughout the conference room in New York.

"Congratulations, Mr. Yao." Alfred reached and warmly shook his hand.

Ivan watched silently in the mass of people, before making his way out of the room, his scarf flowing gently with his steps. As Yao turned around, for a split second, he froze. He noticed that the badge on Ivan's chest had been switched, he hadn't been aware of that until the last second.

Normally, Ivan would wear a badge that had five stars imprinted on it, with a red and white ribbon attached to the bottom. But this one he wore on the day had another set of stars on the ribbon itself. It was well-crafted, finely detailed, and had an old glow to it—it was the very badge that Yao had returned to Ivan the day he left.

Ivan had treasured it from that day on, the badge that represented their ambition together. Pinned to his chest, near his heart, he'd been treasuring it all along.

Yao suddenly felt the urge to run up to him and talk to him. It didn't matter what the topic would be, he just wanted to talk to Ivan again. But he was held up by the crowd, the many heads bobbing around had blocked his tear-blurred vision. By the time he had twisted and turned his way to where Ivan had stood, the tall, warm figure had already disappeared.

"Congratulations, China.." Natalia somewhat reluctantly shook hands with an absent-minded Yao, then she leaned in and whispered to his ear, "My brother is waiting for you at the plaza. He said he wanted to give you a pair of new shoes."

Yao was rather stunned.

As he stepped out of the conference building, he saw Ivan sitting by the fountain. His scarf gently drawn to his waist. He had his head raised, gazing at the rows of flags flapping in the wind.

"What'ya staring at, Yao? Let's get going." Alfred bumped into him as he walked out from behind Yao.

 _….That's right, it is the badge that I once had pinned to my own chest._ Yao thought pensively. _He'd been keeping it, but I've already gotten rid of the shoes he gave me. It would be awkward if he asked about it…_

 _…So…_

"Nothing, let's go." he said and turned to follow Alfred.

Ivan waited for a long time at the plaza, waiting for the little Bolshevik that was fated never to come. Waiting to give the shoes that were never meant to be given.

The sun casted long shadows over the orange scenery as it started to set.

A thin, blue trail of smoke floated and wavered from the incense pot. Ivan had carefully lit the incense with a flick of his wrist. The small patch of light reflected a glow in his amethyst eyes.

Natalia gritted her teeth, "Brother, you are still keeping your old lover's incense?"

"It's the last one." Ivan replied despondently, still staring at the small flame. His voice softer than usual.

"I've told him at the conference! He's the one that chose not to meet up with you….It's just a pair of shoes, you needn't worry, he's not that poor. He can afford something like that." she scrunched up her lips in distain.

Ivan ignored her.

Natalia stood for a while, watching Ivan in distress before giving up and walking towards the door. She stopped and looked back at her older brother.

"Wake up, brother. You need to stay clear-minded." she made one last effort before walking out.

As Natalia was walking down the street, she overheard many doubtful and dejected mutters of conversations.

"Do you what we are doing is right?"; "Who knows?"; "Can this nation really lead us to a brighter future?"; "…Who knows?"

Belarus pursed her lips and wrapped her coat even tighter around her as she walked away.


	9. Chapter 9

A conclusion still hadn't been reached with Vietnam. As difficult a situation it was for Ivan's Soviet side, it was even more troublesome for the American.

"Dammit! We shouldn't do this, bullying a girl isn't what a hero should be doing!" Alfred yelled out orders to his troops, "We're withdrawing! Boys, let's go!"

* * *

Alfred was woken up one day by a noisy riot. He walked up to the tall, French windows of the White House and peered through the curtains to see a startling amount of his people shouting below. He furrowed his brows in distress.

Amidst the chaos, a young girl was moving between the soldiers and slipping flowers in the mouth of their rifles. At this scene, the people broke into an even more intense uproar.

 _"_ _We are against the war! We are for peace! For justice! Withdraw the troops!"_

Withdraw the troops….?

Alfred irritably thrust the curtains shut and dove into his covers, mumbling, "…And I was fighting the war for the good of all of you…"

He rolled around and pulled Arthur, who was sleeping beside him, into his arms. Alfred had dragged him to the bar last night, but Arthur had gotten drunk within the first two cups of beer with his horrible alcohol tolerance. So he stayed with Alfred for the night, and as of now, he would wake up with a terrible hangover.

"…So noisy…bloody wanker…" unfocused emerald eyes blinked sleepily as he complained to the American. He rubbed his sandy blonde hair. Arthur clearly hadn't felt like waking up yet.

"But Arthur—" Alfred dolefully looked at the other.

"Get off me you idiot, you're crushing me…!" said man protested while struggling to move his sore limbs.

Seeing that Alfred did not respond, nor did he seem like he had any intentions of moving, Arthur sighed as he stopped struggling and asked, "What's going on down there?"

"…" soft golden locks rubbed against Arthur's chin, but he did not receive a reply.

"….Alright then, if you won't say, I'll go see for myself." Arthur continued, "Get. Off!"

Alfred rubbed his nose and finally yelled, "Withdrawal! They want me to pull out all my troops! They're starting to get annoyed with me, Arthur!"

Arthur went rigid for a second before he fell silent. He gazed at the ceiling, letting Alfred cling to him.

"You're just too reckless for your own good." He combed his hand through Alfred's hair, voice mild, "…..too reckless."

Arthur thought of the muddy little boy in the prairies some 200 years ago. An innocent boy, yet to know anything. Yet to know of freedom, of independence, of goodbyes. Looking at a younger Britain with eyes only of an untainted, sky blue.

"…Arthur." His eyes were still the shade of a beautiful azure blue, but his voice was much deeper, and he was much taller, and stronger. Alfred propped his forearm next to Arthur's head and leaned in, capturing the man's lips in his own. Slowly from gentle to passionate, he kissed the other, then in the end, becoming violent and aggressive. A metallic tang creeped in between their lips and teeth. Arthur gasped for breath, hands planted on Alfred's sturdy chest, pushing him away in defense.

The dim room with the tightly shut curtains was very quiet, only the heavy breaths of the two were audible, and that made the clamor below them seem even louder, "Withdraw the troops! We want peace!"

Arthur rubbed his lips with the back of his hand and said softly to Alfred, "Two-hundred years ago, they stood beneath my home, yelling for independence. And now even after two-hundred years, they're still out there, yelling for peace. Alfred, why are your people always so vigorous?"

Alfred's lips trailed on Arthur's neck, he did not reply.

The Briton leaned back on the bedside and continued, "Always….so tiresome. Why don't you try Braginsky's old boss's way, like how they gathered all the protestors in a plaza and slaughtered them all?"

"Shut up." Alfred rested his forehead on the other's, his voice quiet and calm, "My sweet Arthur, don't give me any ideas."

Arthur scoffed in amusement.

"What are you planning to do?" as Alfred's hand moved to his waist, Arthur grunted softly and asked, "How are you going to deal with this? Don't get ahead of yourself, Alfred. Make one wrong move from now on, and you will meet a dead end. This is _Ivan Braginsky_ you're dealing with."

A glint of unpredictability flashed through Alfred's eyes for a moment, then he smiled boyishly, "When are you going to stop treating me like a child?"

"You know the consequences if you lose to that maniac," Arthur rolled his eyes at Alfred's pout, "Even if you're in a hurry to die, I refuse pay the expenses for your funeral."

"…Will you stand on my side?"

"…"

"Arthur—"

"No," the Kirkland said, "I won't."

Alfred raised his brows, not surprised at all.

"Francis and the lot have been giving me too much pressure, I can't be too close with you, or else no one would be able to save my people if anything happens." Arthur told him truthfully.

"You've been carefully planning your every step." Alfred smiled, understanding.

"Every nation has been doing so, especially during your clash with Braginsky." Arthur gently slid Texas off Alfred's face and leaned in to kiss his lashes. It was a warm and pleasant touch, it was love in secrecy, unconsciously expressed.

"I have been carefully planning my every step, but what about you, Alfred? What makes you so at ease in this situation? It's time you learn to play the game by the rules."

Alfred slid easily into him, his entrance still lubricant from last night. Arthur arched his back and moaned softly, eyes watery and glazed over with pleasure. His hair was ruffled by Alfred's fingers sweeping through his locks.

"…I'm planning on visiting China this month." Alfred said softly.

"…Has being whacked by a wok become a hobby of yours?"

"What can a sickly nation like him do?" he chuckled, "Jealous?"

Arthur grunted.

"Of course not."

He slid his arms around Alfred's chest and his hands roamed the other's muscular back.

You're afraid, Alfred. You aren't the bold child you once were. Your fearlessness has faded long since you became the world's superpower.

Every man who's tasted of power would always worry about the outcomes of his conquest and his fate. Then he will gradually slow his footsteps until he has come to a full stop. Yao has been on this path, Antonio as well, and so have I. It is because we have tasted the bitter outcomes of this path of power that we've learnt the differences between struggle and failure. We've learnt to treasure what we have now—our family.

You have already come to this crossing-line, and of course you'd board this boat. I won't stop you. I can't stop you either. But you will come across storms and crashing currents, you will endure alone. You and Braginsky. You both are so powerful, and that is precisely why the two of you are so misunderstood, and don't even fully understand your own selves…

* * *

That day, Yao was at home making dumplings when he heard some knocking on his door. He opened it to see that it was Alfred, wearing a seemingly pure and bright grin. Yao knew very well that Alfred liked to pull some strange tricks from time to time. As Ivan would say, "I wouldn't be surprised even if Alfred ran across the beach wearing only his boxers, trying to reach Mars." So as Yao stood facing the unexpected guest, he merely raised his brows, not too excited.

"Yao!" his voice sounded a bit too obviously childish.

"…." the corner of Yao's lips twitched a bit. He said to Alfred, "Mr. Alfred Jones, if you've come to whine like a child, then I suggest you go to Mr. Kirkland for that. I'm busy right now."

Alfred adjusted his glasses and mumbled to himself, "…Thought you'd fall for the trick like Arthur…"

"Did you need anything?" Yao changed the topic, patting off the flour that had collected on his sleeves.

"Yeah." Alfred nodded his head, his cowlick bouncing about.

"…Come in and have a seat." Yao said after a moment of contemplating and moved aside.

After Yao tidied up a few things on the coffee table before he turned to Alfred and smiled, "Please."

The tall blond man sat down on the sofa and looked around the place, seemingly interested and intrigued by Yao's house, but he still hadn't starting talking about his original purpose of this visit. But Yao wasn't in a hurry either, he rested his chin on crossed fingers and watched with impassive eyes. Alfred soon became uncomfortable under his unwavering stare and cleared his throat just to say, "So…..you have any tea?"

Preparing tea was a basic sign of hospitality, and the fact that Yao hadn't prepared any had made it pretty clear that he did not welcome his 'guest'. But of course, Alfred was thick-skulled. He couldn't have noticed such blatant insinuations. Sometimes Alfred could be such a mystery to Yao, seeing that Alfred could be terribly intimidating and intelligent when he needed to be.

Hazel colored liquid filled the cup, and was gently placed in front of Alfred. He lifted the cup and took a gulp of the tea and scrunched up his brows, "It's so bitter."

Yao ignored him.

"Arthur always puts milk and sugar in his tea," he continued, "But it still tastes gross."

"Mr. Jones, if you could be straightforward with what you came here for?" Yao was still smiling, but his words were turning stiff.

Alfred took a breath while the white mist on his glasses gradually faded away from the hot steam of the tea. He took out a set of newspaper clippings from his jacket's pocket and handed it to Yao.

"I'm sure you're familiar with this."

Yao looked through the papers. It was an article of the news by the Washington Post from four years ago. The papers were already slightly yellowed, but they were still neat and smooth. The title boldly stated: _The Soviet Union plans to start a surgical nuclear strike on boundary lines._ After that, there was just a bunch of details and reports. Beneath those were information about the border dispute between China and the Soviet at the Ussuri River, followed by the description of what Ivan's government was planning—to take down Yao's government and soldiers.

"…..Ha." the more Yao read, the colder he felt his heart become. Four years ago was right when Yao's illness was at its peak. His boss was always busy handling so many cases but never told Yao how serious the situation really was, fearing his illness would worsen. Now, as Yao was reading through the article, he felt that is was all too ironic.

"…Braginsky really has some imagination, wanting to get rid of me." he tossed the newspaper article back on the coffee table, so frustrated that he laughed bitterly out loud.

Alfred retrieved the papers and shook his head, "Calm down, his plan had failed from the very beginning. I know you understand, both Arthur and I didn't want him to break the lock because although I have the power the destroy the world, he has the courage to do worse, and that's what's most terrifying. I wanted to warn everyone."

Yao lapsed into silence. At seeing Yao's reaction, Alfred quickly took it into his advantage and continued, "Braginsky's boss was furious, 'cause he thought that I had betrayed him. Heh, what's funny was that I was never on his side. How could there even be a betrayal?"

Alfred turned the teacup around and around, fondling aimlessly at the fine china as he continued with his speech, "Wang, you must be clear on this. It doesn't matter how much he supports you during the conferences. With the way he's treated you in the past, I think we're all very clear on how it really is between you and him—nothing but profits for your own countries. You won't be able to move forward on your own. I need your help as well…so…would you be willing to cooperate with me?"

Yao did not reply because just as Alfred brought up the world conference, his mind immediately lit up at the thought of the star-shaped badge pinned on Ivan's chest. The symbol of what was once their dream. At the proud but lonely glow of light shining in his mind, he hesitated. He didn't know whether to accept Alfred's offer or not.

At seeing Yao's uncertainty, Alfred lightly smiled, "…Before you decide, care to listen to a story?"

* * *

 _The tale was like a lingering dream basked in sunshine, warmth and the aroma of flowers as the Union Jack flapped in the wind. There were countless fairies and mythical creatures in the story, a kind and caring older brother as well. But of course, there was the naive little boy running around in the field, barefoot and carefree._

 _In those olden times, his days were idle and snug. The white, fluffy clouds seemed to have been fixed in the clear, blue sky. They were like herds of fluffy sheep—how soft it would have been to touch them. The sunlight that shone mildly in the gardens of fruit had also seemed to be permanently fixed there as well. Last but not least, there was always the arms of a gentleman there for him to jump into—how he loved the warm embrace._

 _The child's sweet, honeyed voice was like a fountain of fresh, clear water running through a creek, "When I grow up, I'm gonna be the hero!"_

 _But the same pleasant story started to decline with the tipped over cup of tea. The story yellowed, and waned until it became the same sepia tone as the dripping liquid from the teacup. The green-eyed man snatched him by his collar, angrily yelling at him, expressing all the pain in his heart. If payed enough attention, you could see that those emerald eyes seemed to be overflowing with frustration and unshed tears._

 _The boy found his ambition but lost his way home. He'd become a young man in the blink of an eye. Not even the fairies could guide his way anymore. What could they do? He vowed to follow his own path. He wanted his own freedom._

 _The gentle and royal brother raised his rifle with trembling hands and aimed it at the throat of the young boy—perhaps he wasn't just a 'boy' anymore, because standing before him was a blue-eyed man with brilliant blonde locks of hair dressed in uniform. He'd then just realized that the young man had grown even taller than himself._

 _That day in the story, the heavens wept. It felt like the storm was about to wash away the whole world as it was pouring on their heads. But in a way, it cleansed and it healed. It washed away his tears of shame and misery._

 _At the end of the day, he still was not able to bring himself to pull the trigger._

 _The once grand and God-like big brother threw away all means of dignity and honor, he allowed himself to collapse to his knees on the soggy ground. He knelt before his beloved family member, the rain piercing like needles into his skin. The empire covered his face with a gloved hand, sobbing soundlessly as the rain carried away his gasps and grunts._

 _"…I can't continue on….like this…any longer…" his sentences came out ragged and broken, "Why must it always come to…betrayal, abandonment, and loneliness….Francis, and even you….is this how is must be for us nations? When will I ever learn…to look before I fall…"_

 _The Union Jack fell into the mud, treaded on over and over again by boots of the military men._

* * *

"He'll never realize how much I wanted to drop my weapons and just hold him close. It pained me even more to see him cry—I loved him, for Christ's sake! But for my people, I had to force him to give up. I had to make him understand that my name will never belong to the British Empire." Alfred swallowed his tea as he calmly said to Yao.

Silence crept up once again between the two men.

"I was thinking you'd never bring up this topic again." Yao answered after a long pause. He aimlessly shifted his cup around.

Alfred smiled.

"Honda told me that he thought you'd never want to hear the story of two brothers again." his grin turned ever so slightly bitter.

The sunlight shot through the window behind Yao and wiped across the coffee table, disguising itself as a golden tablecloth. Yao suddenly felt that the scar on his back—the scar that Ivan had so tenderly applied medicine to, so gently showered with kisses—had started to hurt so agonizingly again. Alfred's story had only served to throw salt on the wound. The pain was so clear and real.

It had occurred to him that history had never left. Ivan had only so gently and subtly covered his eyes, blocking away all the grief, but also the light. Ivan had also unconsciously hindered him from tasting the dustiness of all the years that had gone by, and the gentle yet sad eyes of Kiku as well.

Ivan had protected and locked Yao in his arms for a decade, never forgetting to remind him, "Comrade Yao, I love you so much…"

Yao knew that it definitely was not a lie. Because when Ivan said it, he had a dying but honest heart. Yet, it was even more toxic than a lie.

"Yao?" Alfred called his name.

With a jerk of his hand, and a few drops of tea escaping from his cup, Yao came to reality again, apologetic.

"Oh, I apologize…"

The conversation after that was no longer stiff and tense. They carried on with the pot of tea until the last drop. The rays of sunlight continued to shower on them, the ice started to melt.

As Alfred walked out of Yao's front porch, he tilted his head up and glazed at the sky. Then out of the blue, a familiar tune drifted in his ear.

 _How many roads must a man walk down,_

 _before they call him a man?_

 _How many seas must a white dove sail_

 _before she sleeps in the sand?_

 _How many times_ _must the cannon balls fly_

 _before they are forever banned?_

 _The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind._

 _How many years must a mountain exist_

 _before it is washed to the sea?_

 _How many years can some people exist_

 _Before they're allowed to be free?_

 _How many times can a man turn his head_

 _and pretend that he just doesn't see?_

 _The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind._

 _How many times must a man look up_

 _Before he can see the sky?_

 _How many ears must one man have_

 _before he can hear people cry?_

 _How many deaths will it take_

 _'_ _till he knows that too many people have died?_

 _The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind._

 _The answer is blowing in the wind…_

As soon as Alfred stepped out of his house, Yao wearily closed his eyes. His mind was filled with the thought of that article from Washington Post. His nails dug into his palm, anger levels rising. He thought, _If only I could burn away those days like the pair of shoes he gave me._ The dark ashes fluttering like the wings of a swallowtail butterfly, never allowing him to turn back again. But of course, that was impossible. The affections, the words said, and the actions done would always be coiled in the most fragile corner of his heart. It wasn't for him to decide when he could rid of it. He could only leave it to grow and develop by itself. Blossoming into a lonely flower.

* * *

Oh boy...longest chapter yet! The song at the end is Blowin' in the Wind by Bob Dylan, for those of you who don't know.

..And guys... I just realized that I had been spelling Ivan's last name incorrectly this whole time! It's supposed to be BraginSKY intead of BraginSKI since -ski is used by the Polish, not the Russians...oh man...I'll just continue using Braginsky in the future chapters since I'm too lazy to go back and change all the Braginskis :D

Thanks for bearing with me! See you on the next chapter...


	10. Chapter 10

That day, Alfred had excitedly arrived at Kiku's door again and invited himself in.

"Hey Honda! I've talked with Yao and he didn't seem to be mad anymore, just a bit mentally drained, I guess. We can visit him together next time, he was okay with it when I asked."

Kiku was trimming his plants in his mini-garden when Alfred had jubilantly brought the news. He stiffened for a second, pursing his lips at a loss of words. The warm night breeze of Izu gently lifted his black hair as he wore a terribly perplexing complexion. It was a mix of hesitation, surprise, and insuppressible relief.

With a sudden jerk of his pruning shear, the peony petals fluttered to the ground next to Kiku's feet, like dripping blood. He was still wearing the old pair of wooden clog with indescribable pain and grief embedded into the knots and wood. They fit him snugly.

It had been centuries since his childhood promise.

On the very same day, Natalia had been indignantly marching around, looking for Ivan.

"Oi! Big Brother! Your old friend has been getting closer to your enemy, and also, the little island nation is really looking forward to rowing his merry way across the ocean to visit your old friend too!" she huffed, just about sick and tired of watching the drama going on.

The man fondling with his metal pipe froze, almost dropping it on his foot. The piercing Siberian wind ruffling his pale blond hair. He wore a terribly perplexing complexion. It was a mix of fury, shock, and insuppressible hurt.

The wind howled, the sunflowers' delicate stems bent as if in protest to the harsh cold. The flowers radiated an elegant and headstrong glow of yellow, shifting and bending in unison.

The aspirations of war awakened once again.

* * *

History always replays itself. Revolving as it ascends though time, never eternal, yet always there. Existing only for profits.

Years earlier, as Germania plunged his sword into Rome's chest, as Gilbert rode with the eternally happy little bird into the city of Vienna, as Arthur and Francis bickered about for hundreds of years… countless mortals had spilled their blood onto the nations' soil. Yao had seen it all, heard it all, the wounds ever so fresh in his mind. Most deeply carved in his mind were the ones who'd inflicted those scars. He'd remember them clearer than anyone.

The days soundlessly floated by, and now it was the scheduled date when Kiku Honda would visit Yao Wang.

Yao followed his boss to the international pickup at the airport. The mountain maples of Beijing were a deep hue of crimson, the leaves decorated the streets bringing emotions of reminisce of the chilly autumn. The sweet smell of caramel wafted into the vulnerable hearts of the busily passing individuals.

The door of the jet opened and Yao squinted his dark eyes from the early light and watched as people flowed out one by one, but none of them matched the one being that had embedded himself deeply in his heart, until he saw that one pair of eyes—it was no mistake, his heart throbbed faintly, the pair of quiet, beautiful eyes. The neatly cleaned up outfit, never so familiar.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps closer.

Nii-san.

Yao slowly closed his eyes as he felt the wind scrape at the corners of his tear line all the way to his temples. He took a deep breath and as he reopened his eyes, Kiku had already approached before him, gaze steady. They locked eyes, black to black, ancient visions unfazed.

The autumn wind took the stray leaves with it and swept between the two.

"…Mr. Honda," he smiled politely at Kiku and held out his hand, "Welcome."

Kiku was looking straight at Yao's face, still as delicate and poised, but somehow Yao thought something was missing. It was a quality that had gone missing a long, long time ago.

Japan shook hands with China, fingers slipping expertly and professionally into the other's. He thought of the smile that he would receive when he was younger. When he still lived in the isolated bamboo thicket with faint fragrances of blossoms, the sound of flowing water against smooth stones.

The visage of the youthful version of him was delicate, poised, and….what else?

He remembered when he would finish his chores for the day and finally get to snuggle up to his older brother. The older nation would glance at him with amusement and comb his fingers through Kiku's hair.

Was it meant to be that we must leave behind the days of warm smiles and lighthearted conversations?

He has left behind the little Kiku and became Mr. Honda as a full grown nation.

He has lost the gentle admonishments and laughter and was now, in turn, greeted with stiff and strained welcomes as if he were a stranger.

Their bosses greeted each other, expressing utmost humility and started to make their way toward the conference building. Yao and Kiku exchanged glances, neither of them knowing what to do next. The atmosphere turned somewhat awkward. China pushed the hair away that had been blown in his eyes and cleared his throat.

"How about taking a walk?"

They strode through the back gardens filled with fragrant olive tress. Yao kept his head down and did not say a word. Their footsteps synced rhythmically, tapping lightly on the stone path. He stared at their dress shoes. It was so different than what they would use to wear. His heart felt hollow and empty. As they approached the third bamboo ring, Kiku stopped and he stared at Yao.

"What is it?" Yao turned around.

"…You're not wearing your own traditional clothes," he said out of the blue.

His sudden question had Yao speechless for a while when he finally answered, "Those were getting old and worn out, I didn't want them anymore."

Japan started to rub the sprinkles of olive blossoms against the ground with the bottom of his shoe.

In the evening, Yao took Kiku out for dinner. Dishes were laid neatly on the table along with the pot of old spirit. Yao was soon to regret ordering the alcohol, as he'd forgotten that Kiku had a considerably terrible alcohol tolerance. After just a few shots, he'd already started to talk nonsense. He'd even grab hold of Yao's sleeve, brazenly complaining.

"Mr. Yao," he slurred, "I'm telling you, I really despise that Braginsky bastard!"

Said man rubbed his temples in distress, mumbling to himself that Mr. Braginsky at least has a much better alcohol tolerance than the dazed man beside him now.

" _Nii-san_ …" Kiku grabbing again onto a startled Yao, who jumped slightly at the sudden change of character. Japan then gave him a soft, drunken smile and leaned his head on him, then preceded to start humming a ridiculously traditional tune. Yao put his chopsticks down, not knowing whether to be angry or to laugh out loud. He reached to shift Kiku over into sitting position again, but as soon as he made contact, the Japanese man started to stubbornly struggle in protest again. He mumbled something in his own language that Yao couldn't quite make out and then started singing again.

"Sakura! Sakura!"

He then proceeded to collapse on Yao once again. The latter frowned.

Yao had then fully understood how difficult it was to deal with a drunken person. It was certainly something to see such a poised and placid man act so childish and silly. It was perhaps even more of a scene to Yao than having a drunken Ivan go around trying to bonk the living daylight out of everyone with his metal pipe. Yao was thankful to have reserved a private dining room, or they might have been the laughing stock of the whole restaurant by now.

The trouble-making culprit continued on babbling nonsense, then fell silent for a moment. Just when Yao thought he could have some peace, the little drunk started again.

" _Nii-san_ , can you come visit me more often?" his voice was barely above a whisper.

Yao froze.

Kiku looked like he was on the brink of tears. Then, he finally fell asleep.

He dreamt of the beautiful Begonia flowers in bloom, the only part of the island that was covered in the comforting blossoms. He also dreamt of fear. His only older brother ceding massive amount of lands to foreigners. He dreamt that he was still only a little boy, nestling his head onto his nii-san's lap and resting on the cool wooden floor of his old home.

Yao stared blankly at Kiku, he felt his eyes moisten and warm up as tears pricked at the corners. He stared through the watery vision and kept his eyes on Kiku. Yao suddenly thought that the sleeping figure was still the pure little boy he'd used to play with. Still the little boy that would run around in the wooden clogs that were too big for his feet. _Clank. Clank._ He would hear the hurried and light footsteps every time little Kiku pranced around. Then when he tired himself out, he would call out in such a clear and untainted voice, " _Nii-san..!_ " and come to rest beside him.

 _…Just today,_ Yao said to himself, _just once, together with him, let us dream back to the times in Nagasaki…_

He was so tired of hating.

He slowly reached his hand out and he combed through the same jet-black hair. A motion so familiar at the back of his mind. He gently combed again and again.

His voice was somewhat choked up.

"Only if…you behave yourself, I'll always come visit…"

Kiku shifted, his tense body seemed to be much more relaxed. Although his face was tilted, it could be seen that he wore a faint smile. A little sorrowful, but so reassured and quiet.

A drop of crystal rolled down from Yao's cheek, falling between Kiku's dark locks. Silently disappearing.

The childish delusion faded with the blur of tears. But even after the self-deception, his eyes still reflected so clearly—the Kiku that was no longer young anymore.

They may never go back.

He wasn't the _nii-san_ anymore.

He wasn't the little Kiku anymore either.

People come and go. Dreams are neglected and forgotten.

He was Yao Wang.

That was all he had.

* * *

1975, spring.

Vietnam was fully recovered.

The girl wore a newly hand-sewn cotton dress. She hugged her luggage close as she sat on the edge of the hospital bed. The flowers outside the window were blossoming beautifully, the light pink petals looked like tinted puffs of clouds. They scattered gracefully all around the branches. Even all the horrors of war could not prevent the blossoms from blooming again in the spring.

"How are you feeling?" Yao, who came to visit, asked.

"Much better." Vietnam remained somewhat stoic.

Yao nodded and said nothing.

The girl reached into her bag and pulled out an exquisitely decorated notepad.

"The first page is ripped out for some reason, but…" she trailed off as she held it out to Yao.

Yao returned her gaze and smiled, "Thank you."

He accepted her gift.

* * *

In the days before Ivan's boss had passed away, he spent most of his time in bed brooding about his country's relationship with Yao. He had driven the two nations apart and had committed sins that resulted in the stiff and cold relationship between the two. New presidents will replace the former, new ideologies would be placed on the people of the country again and again, yet none can rid the pain that has been imprinted on their nation's heart. The leaders regretted, as soon as they realised that all the burden and consequences of this moment in history would continue to accumulate and pile up on Ivan.

"…Shouldn't have treated him like that…." warm drops of tears rolled down the wrinkled and aged face of the Soviet president. Ivan sat beside the old man at his bedside, gripping firmly onto his hand. His violet eyes shined with a subtle hint of sorrow. The old man's glazed eyes stared straight at the ceiling while images in his mind took him back to a time where he was filled with passion and youth, ambition and dreams, "I should not have treated him like that…."

The world was quite ludicrous. What he had been fighting for his whole life had ultimately left him with nothing but disappointment.

It was absurd.

As he closed his eyes, he felt everything he once had in this lifetime all slip away from his grasp. He could not take anything away with him from this world but his own life.

"…I was just another poverty-stricken boy when this all started….I knew the taste of poverty…yet, I had forced Yao, and even my own citizens into the same situation…" he murmured, "Ivan…I regret it…so much…"

He laughed silently. It was more like a sob, humor nowhere to be found. The sorrowful sound hung heavily in the air.

"I do not blame you. It was for the good of my future." Ivan said, "I understand."

The old man nodded, as if trying to reassure himself, he then opened his mouth again to speak in a surprisingly determined voice.

"You must go to Yao, do you understand? I have realized that you need him…more than anything."

The old boss's words echoed through Ivan's mind.

I must find him, I must find Yao.

Ivan squeezed his boss's hand and replied softly, "Do not worry, I will have him back. I will use force if I have to."

The president shook his head with a smile, "…Don't force him, haven't you understood his personality by now? Speak with him, and he will come back to you."

He extended a shaky and boney finger, wanting to touch Ivan one last time. But before he could reach Ivan's face, the arm went limp and fell back onto the bed with a thump.

The fire went out.

Ivan closed his eyes and silently stayed seated by the bed for a long time.

The old soul quietly drifted back to the snowy origin, melting into one with the soil of the proud nation. Never separating again.

Yao neatly folded his documents that were due at the end of the week and tucked a few pieces of paper into place in an envelope as he sighed at the news Mongolia brought him.

"His boss has recently passed away, and his temper only worsened. He wouldn't eat his meals properly, and would take his anger out on the Baltics, especially Toris who prepares his meals. Ivan's stubborn. He insists that he would not go see a doctor, even as he coughs blood up his lungs."

Yao had one of his men to deliver some homemade herbs to Leningrad so that Ivan would at least have some medicine to de-stress on.

From that day on, he would also receive packages from Leningrad from time to time. Sometimes it would be a pen, sometimes a Russian handkerchief. Ivan sure sent some strange gifts.

One random day, as Yao pushed opened his doors to feel the warm sunlight on his skin, he was greeted by Mongolia holding a nosegay of sunflowers. The flowers were so bright, they challenged the brightness of the sun.

Mongolia walked over to Yao to hand him the and smiled, "Ivan asked me to give these to you. He spent all afternoon picking these for you. They're the best blooms of the garden."

"…"

The brilliant sunflowers were a dazzling golden yellow. They were beautiful.

Yao cradled the flowers delicately in his arms, taking a deep breath of the faint but comforting smell. It felt so warm, as if his skin was melting along with it. It felt as warm as an embrace— an embrace on a cold, snowy day, basking him from all the piercing coldness. The petals shone as if they reflected each and every memory in his heart.

World War two.

The smile in the backlight.

The shooting rage in the middle of the night.

The Bolshevik's badge in the snow.

Yao couldn't forget the utter kindness and gentleness of Ivan.

 _I really can't forget._

He hugged the bouquet and couldn't help but smile.

"We're both idiots…"

The next day, Yao received an invitation from the Kremlin Palace.

" _Comrade Yao,_

 _It is the day of my president's funeral tomorrow. I wish for you to come with me and see him off the Kremlin Palace._

 _I will be waiting for you in Moscow._ "

Yao booked a flight and was leaving for Moscow that very night. He sat on the cushioned seat, warming his hands on a cup of tea and stared out into the sky out the cabin. The sea of swimming grey clouds were like the worries overflowing in his chest, weighing him down and trapping him in a grey haze.

He thought of Ivan's tall and lonely figure, back turned to him, walking farther and farther away. It was like a scene of a bitter dream. Yao thought that maybe he'd never even really understood Ivan's emotions and opinions. The path that Ivan had chosen was one without guidance. It was a winding and dangerous route. Ivan was also a lonely brave soul, using his blood and tears to pave his way through the dark. He raised his burning heart high in the sky, and used his own passion as a torch.

He was so courageous, so full of pride, so strong. He would rather people think that we was incapable of feeling pain than show them even the slightest weakness. He couldn't let anyone know that after a long day of being invincible, he would also wake in the middle of the night from the cold, and then secretly and quietly curl up into a ball and let his tears flow freely.

Ivan felt tired.

The brave man was already covered in wounds.

Perhaps they were all like that, Yao thought, never coming to realize their own mistakes. Always shooting harsh words toward each other, always aiming to shoot and never understanding.

"Ivan…we're such idiots, aren't we…?" he repeated again.

* * *

 **To Be Continued...**

 **Pls ignore any grammar or spelling mistakes...I was too tired to edit .**

 **(lazy)**


	11. Chapter 11

By the time Yao arrived at Moscow, it was already midnight. The airport was empty, only a handful of people could be seen scurrying around to their destinations. Yao rubbed his cold hands together and pulled his coat tighter around his body. He looked around for any familiar faces but found none.

One minute passed.

Five minutes passed.

Half an hour passed.

He stood alone in the half deserted airport, anxiousness creeping into his mind. The warmth in his chest gradually cooled down until he was nothing but a puddle of cold water. The cold breeze pierced into his mind and started to wash away his confidence. Yao started to doubt if he was really meant to be here. He fretted uneasily. Maybe Braginsky did not welcome him at all. Maybe he was still upset about Yao leaving him to wait alone at the world conference.

Yao gripped onto his suitcase, still mentally stressing out.

What would he do now? Go home? Find a hotel first? He stared at his feet with endless hesitation.

 _Yao Wang, you are an idiot. A complete fool. Completely._

He forcefully dragged his suitcase behind him as he stomped towards the exit of the waiting room, reproaching himself for flying all the way to Moscow when his people still needed him to help deal with all the problems at hand back home. He was a fool. He angrily yelled at himself in his head, Ivan was a jerk for inviting him over just to leave him hanging. All of the people in Russia were imbeciles too, see—there was a man waiting for his flight, all sprawled out on a long bench, asleep! How rude!

Yao's mood was down in the pits. He couldn't help it, when he was felt irritated, he was annoyed by everyone and everything.

"Excuse me, mister," he said brusquely, obviously irked, "could you please get up? You're blocking my way."

No response.

Yao took a deep breath and raised his voice.

"Mister, can you please get up?"

The man seemed to be fighting a battle with the blinding lights of the waiting room, eyes fluttering in attempt to blink away the brightness. He slapped a newspaper article onto his face. Yao did not see clearly the visage of him, but as the man crossly opened his eyes, Yao froze at the sight of the crystal pools of violet.

"…Braginsky…" he managed to choke out after what seemed like forever.

Ivan jolted in surprise as well, mouth hanging open. He looked like a complete idiot.

"…Why are you sleeping here," Yao's mind was racings a thousand miles per minute, but all he managed to get out was a stupid question. Ivan sat up on the bench, looking like a child being scolded. He rubbed his soft blond hair and mumbled.

"…I've been waiting since the afternoon, but you hadn't showed up…" he trailed off, "Natalie said you wouldn't come, but I wanted to wait just a while more."

Yao noticed how rattled Ivan looked. His pale hair had grown longer than it had been the last time they met. His scarf was wrinkled and hastily thrown on. Yao felt a squeeze at his throat. _Perhaps Ivan was just cold and tired from all the waiting,_ he reassured himself.

They stepped out of the airport.

The two men walked shoulder to shoulder in the snow-covered streets, both buried deep in their thoughts as they treaded through the frosty night. They both were too afraid to talk.

The creamy white snow crunched satisfyingly under their feet. Ivan carried Yao's suitcase in one hand, and held the umbrella for both of them in the other. His breath formed puffs of white clouds.

"…"

"…"

"Um…I received the medicine herbs you sent me." Ivan couldn't stand it anymore and stammered to Yao.

Yao hummed in response.

"…I got your pen."

"…I got your tea…"

Their conversation must have seemed quite bizarre to anyone else, but Ivan's hands just shivered. The umbrella tilted more towards Yao, leaving Ivan's shoulder peeking out. By now it was covered with speckles of snow flakes. Yao quickly snapped his head towards Ivan.

"And uh, your sunflowers were beautiful.

"Thank you."

The conversation of gratitude came to an end. The men fell into silence again.

Ivan then tilted his head up to glance at the dark, charcoal sky.

"…We should take a cab back. The snow seems to be getting worse."

Yao nodded.

They stood beside a lamp post waiting for the taxi. Soft flakes of snow fell gently like pieces into place. Yao snuck a glance at Ivan, noticing how unwell he looked. He had dull circles around his eyes, his hair was long and ruffled as it dangled lifelessly beside his ears. His face had become bonier as his cheekbones protruded.

Yao hesitated for a moment before softly touching the other's elbow.

"…Um…Let me hold the umbrella."

Ivan was surprised and touched as the same time, but he shook his head.

"I'll hold it, it's fine."

Yao ignored him and stretched his arm out to take hold of the umbrella. He shook it slightly, letting all the fluffy snow sprinkle down to the ground.

The muted light above them melted into the cold air. The two men beneath the umbrella smiled under the darkness.

Ivan stared at Yao, wanting to thank him. But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

"…You should know better than to only wear two layers. To think that you'd know the—"

Yao was in the middle of his sentence when he abruptly broke off. For Ivan had suddenly, without warning, pulled him into a tight and unforgiving embrace. He held on to Yao in a bone crushing grip. He couldn't hold in his emotions anymore, for he had suppressed them for the longest time already. All the pain and all the misery.

Yao did not feel his fingers loosen, but the umbrella soon ended up on the ground, plunged into the snow.

The dim light reflected in Yao's eyes. Amidst the flurry of snow, he held him.

At the end of the long trail of footprints in the snow lingered the history down the path that they had treaded on together. Each step was imprinted, deep into the countries' memoirs.

Ivan rested his head in the crook of the other's shoulder. Yao couldn't make out his expression, but he could feel Ivan slightly trembling, and he could hear his deep rumbly voice.

"They all said that I was going mad. They said that you weren't going to come, they said that you didn't even care about me anymore—like that time at the world conference, where I waited alone…for someone that I did not even have a chance with…."

The words pierced into Yao's heart. Filled with sadness and guilt.

"Yao…now that my leader is gone, I don't know who to rely on anymore. I don't know anyone except for you that I'd want to attend the funeral with." he took a sharp breath in, trying to conceal the waver of tears in his voice.

Yao closed his eyes, lifting his arms to wrap them gently around Ivan's waist. The big man was crying like a little child.

"Ivan…" Yao said, "Please don't cry…"

They stood in the snowy night, engulfed in each other's embraces for the longest time. The snow fell silently and kissed their hair and their coats. It was so cold, yet so warm. The wind lifted the corners of their clothes, floating in the night.

Ivan's hand ran though Yao's hair and over his back. He repeated the man's name again and again, his voice filled with sincerity and cherish.

 _Yao._

 _Little Bolshevik._

"…The day that I left you in the plaza…how long did you stay to wait?" Yao asked tentatively, his face half buried in the soft scarf.

"The whole afternoon, until Toris came crying to me, telling me to go home." Ivan replied.

"Do you know why I didn't come?"

"…"

"I burnt the old pair of shoes you gave me." Yao continued, "But I saw that you still had the Bolshevik badge on your chest. Ivan, I wasn't ready to face you, I didn't know what to do. I felt so burdened for some reason. And I am guilty of that to this day."

"Ivan." Yao said again after a moment of pause. He ran his fingers over the cold surface of Ivan's badge, "…On the day I burnt the shoes, I chugged down all your vodkas. I was drunk, but still so clearly focused. Yet, I still burnt them. I thought that I could burn away all the bad memories as well."

Ivan stayed silent.

"If you had asked about it, what would I have answered? I couldn't think of an excuse, Ivan. I wanted to keep it a secret from you." Yao took a breath, "I thought that you might be angry."

"…No. How could I?" Ivan said, "It is your possession. You can burnt it all you want, you can sell it, do whatever to it. Why would I be angry?"

Yao took a few steps back and lifted his chin to meet the taller's eyes.

"….Ivan."

"Don't say anything…Yao, I won't interfere with your affairs anymore. If you have your own path to pursue, I will not stop you. I've decided."

Yao contemplated Ivan's words, then softly spoke.

"Thank you."

Ivan shot a tear-stained smile at Yao and bent over to gently kiss his cold lips. He warmed them with his patience and his understanding. Yao welcomed the touch and unconsciously wrapped his arms around the man's neck and pulled him closer.

That night, Ivan did not take Yao to the hotel. Instead, he took him directly back to the Kremlin Palace.

"At one point, you kicked over a basket of unripened apples here," the polar bear-like man pointed at the snowy clearing outside the palace doors.

Yao humphed and retorted, "At one point, you complained to me that my apples were too small and too sour."

They stared each other down for a moment, then burst out in laughter. The lively sound filling the quiet, winter air.

"…I had thought that I'd lost everything we had between us, Comrade Ivan." he said to him.

"I'd thought that you would never come back, Comrade Yao."

"…I never forgot the times we spend together." Yao took a deep breath and said calmly, "Battling in the wars together, planning our foreign affairs together. Debts, trade, war…no matter the bad or the good, I never forgot anything that we had together. But every time I think of all the things we had, I feel as though I can't live a day without you anymore."

"And…it just feels so empty here." Ivan pressed a hand on his chest, directly above his heart. He then extended his arms to hold Yao again, "Yao, I'm aware of how messed up and confused I am, and I know that you do too."

He paused, as if he was sorting through his thoughts right then and there.

"Not long after, I heard of the news that both you and Honda Kiku had started to meet up with Jones. I just felt that something was being stolen from me. It felt terrible. All this time…I felt terrible. And left alone."

"I know you haven't been eating properly as well." he couldn't tell if Yao sounded concerned or reproachful, "Torturing yourself like that, Braginsky, you really are an idiot."

The second day, Ivan and Yao woke early in the morning.

Clean up. Get dressed.

Ivan's boss's funeral was momentous, yet simple. Just like the former president himself.

He was gone forever, yet the badges still remained, the money was still there. The disappointment never left. Perhaps life was footprints on the sand. Nothing belonged to an individual except for the marks left behind. Yet even the marks will get washed away as time goes on.

Ivan stepped forward to gently rest a bouquet of radiant sunflowers beside the peaceful-looking old man. During the whole duration of the funeral, Yao stayed standing behind Ivan, silently watching him.

Has he gotten used to this yet?

Even the greatest leaders of a nation will pass someday. None of them could stop that from happening. The choice left for them was to get used to it.

They'd gotten so accustomed that they themselves have transformed into daunting beings. Not even the deaths of their leaders could bring tears to their eyes.

Ivan accepted the scarlet red flag from the general and unfolded it with great skill. He then gracefully laid it over the old man's body. It somehow fit perfectly.

"Long live, the Bolsheviks."

The words rang out clear and sharp. Ivan's voice echoed throughout the empty snowfield until it was completely swept away into the hungry winds' stomach.

He turnt to Yao, "That red flag over there—it is the most esteemed award of all. As long as one wears it, he is the hero of the Soviet, with courage and pride. It is tinted red by the boiling blood of my workers. It holds my very soul. Only those who are acknowledged by me may wear it. Yao, do you understand?"

Yao nodded solemnly. He gazed at the former president resting beneath the brilliant red flag of the hammer and sickle.

Perhaps…I do understand.

The grand national anthem sounded. White doves fluttered over their heads.

Gun shots.

One shot.

Two shots.

Three shots.

The Soviet's bravery, pride, and determination.

The red flag—the most esteemed award of all.

Yao suddenly realized, even with his own new shoes, as he was walking through the snowy plaza, he started to feel cold.

When evening came, Yao tagged along to the kitchen to help Toris out in preparing dinner. The green-eyed man was so grateful that he had tears threatening to fall out of his eyes when he saw Yao coming to help. He had clung to Yao, pleading him to teach him how to make dumplings, complaining that Ivan always gives him a hard time only because he didn't know how to make dumplings.

Yao didn't know how he should feel about that—although he was quite amused.

After their meal together, Yao took a shower and returned to the bedroom. He saw Ivan sitting on the bed, eyes glued to the television. The channel was running on a news report as Ivan sat frozen with the remote control still in his hand. On the screen was Alfred's forever-grinning face, reporting on some new scientific discovery, all while not forgetting to add his infamous "'Cause I'm the Hero!", he then proceeded to give the camera a wink. The interviewer sounded a bit exasperated as he carried on to the next question. It could have just been Yao's imagination, though.

Someone ought to teach this boy some formal public speaking skills.

Yao still had his towel draping over his still dripping wet hair. He occasionally gave his long hair a rub as the droplets rolled down onto his shoulders. He sat beside Ivan, and the soft mattress dipped a bit from the weight. Yao glanced at the television for a moment, then glanced back at Ivan. He wore a quite amusing expression. Ivan looked like he was forced to swallow a bug.

"If he annoys you, then don't watch him. Just switch the channel." Yao's lips tugged upward.

Ivan just replied with an 'oh', then pressed the button.

The channel switched to a music program. They watched in silence as classical orchestral music filled the room. Yao's hands brushed against the badge on Ivan's coat lying on the bed. He turned to stare at it.

"This…" he traced the star shaped badge with his fingers, "Why didn't you throw it away?"

"Just because you burnt your shoes doesn't mean that I have to give up my badge too." Ivan smiled curiously. Then after pausing, he added, "Comrade Yao, I do not act upon choices that I will regret in the future."

Yao had nothing to say about that.

Instead, he simply continued to dry his hair on the towel resting on his shoulders.

"Whenever you see this badge…won't you be reminded of hating me?"

"About what?"

"…Burning your sunflowers, your posters… _betraying_ you."

Ivan smiled again, propping his hands on the bedside and leaned in close to Yao.

"No matter who, everyone will look at history with a prejudiced perspective. But I think I'd have to reverse our conversation ask you: weren't you reminded of your hate towards whenever you saw the pair of shoes?"

"Yes, I was." Yao admitted, he could feel Ivan's soft breath tickling his chest. "I hated you so much."

"…How come you didn't lie to me this time?"

"There's no need to. Ivan, you were the only one to reach out to me during the Second World War. I had no choice but to take your hand." he looked straight into Ivan's eyes, he saw his own reflection staring back, "But now, I know I have the power to stand up for myself, not like before. I know I cannot keep relying on you."

As Ivan did not speak, he continued, "But you are not alone anymore, Ivan."

Ivan continued to hold his silence before nodding his head in a surprisingly calm manner.

"I understand, Comrade Yao. We are two different nations at the end of the day, we cannot seek to stay as one forever."

Yao nodded.

"But Ivan, please know this, if I wasn't a nation…I really would love you unconditionally no matter what."

Ivan smiled painfully, his handsome face was written with woe.

"I was so fearless before, I killed, conquered, and took advantage of all the others. Before I met you, I really was a different person. I've been blinded by you, haven't I?"

"Yes." Yao replied.

Ivan scoffed, "You've become so honest, it's getting on my nerves."

Yao teasingly pressed his fingers on the bridge of his nose and said, "Then move out of the way, I'm sleeping with Toris tonight."

Ivan, being the rogue he was, straight out locked Yao in his strong grip and held him like a teddy bear.

"No. You're not getting away from me." He then suddenly leaned in a whispered vaguely, "You're going to cry for me tonight."

Yao chewed on his cheek and swallowed. His lip twitched as he wanted to say something, but he couldn't find the right words, so he compliantly closed his mouth instead. Ivan tugged on his wrist, urging him to lie down next to him. The lights went out for the night.

That's it for chapter 11 :D

The rest is up to your imagination!

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To be continued...


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